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BOOK  OF  POET 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


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Copyright,   1882  and   1910 
By  T.   V.   Crovvell  &  Co. 


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CONTEE^TS. 


A. 

PAGE 

Abide  with  Me Lyt» 3M 

Abou  Ben  Adhem ^U7it 299 

Abraham  Lincoln Stoddard 54U 

Absence Kenible 817 

A  Character R.  B.  Browning .     .     .  67 

A  Character ^-  T.  Fields     ....  220 

A  Day  of  Sunshine H.W.  LongfeUow     .     .  345 

Address  to  a  Mummy IJ.  Smith oil 

Address  to  Certain  Goldfishes //.  Coleridge  ....  133 

A  Death-Bed >[■  Aldrich 8 

A  Dirge Winter 661 

A  Dream • ^-  <^«''2/' 121 

A  Dream's  Awakening S.  M.  B.  Piatt      ...  420 

A  Drop  of  Dew JUarrell 367 

Advice  on  Church  Behavior Herbert 264 

A  Face  in  the  Street G.  P.  Lathrop     .     .     .  33G 

A  F.arewell Kingsley 321 

Afar  in  the  Desert Pringle 437 

Affliction A.T.De  Vere      ...  185 

A  Forsaken  Garden Swinburne      ....  553 

A  Forest  Walk Street 548 

A  Four  o'clock Spofford 531 

After  All Winter 659 

After  a  Mother's  Death E.  Cook 150 

After  Death  in  Arabia E.  Arnold 21 

After  the  Ball Perry 414 

After  the  Burial Lo\oell 350 

After  the  Itain T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  11 

A  Funeral  Thought .    .     .     .  B.  Taylor 565 

Against  Rash  Opinions Crabbe 165 

Against  Skeptical  Philosophy Campbell 117 

Age Rogers    .     .   ■.     .     .     .  463 

Aged  Sophocles  Addressing  the  .\thenians A.  Fields 224 

A  Happy  Life Wotton 670 

A  Hospital E.  Spenser 527 

A  Letter Phelps 417 

Alexander  at  Persepolis Michell 370 

Alexander  Selkirk Cowper 161 

Alexander's  Feast Dryden 199 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave Sargent 469 

A  Little  before  Death     ...         If.  E.  White    ....  636 

A  Little  While Bonar 48 

All  Change  ;  no  Doath E.  Young (M 

All  Earthly  .Toy  Returns  in  Pain Dunbar 208 

AU  in  a  Lifetime Stedman 539 

All  the  Rivers Phelps 416 

All  Things  Once  are  Things  Forever Lord  Houghton  .     .     .  289 

All  Things  Sweet  when  Prized A.  T.  De  Vere     ...  186 

All  Together .  B.  H.  Broivnell  ...  57 

Alone H.  U.  Brownell  .    .    .  S6 


iv  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  Lost  Chord A.  A.  Procter      .    .    .  441 

A  Lover's  Prayer Wyatt 677 

A  March  Violet Lazarus 837 

A  Match Swinburne      ....  555 

Ambition , Q.  Houghton   ....  285 

Ambition E.  Youtig 683 

Amends Richar(Lson     ....  468 

America Dobell     ...,.,  189 

A  Mussel-Shell Thaxter .    .             .    .  587 

A  Name  in  the  Sand Gould     .     .         ...  238 

And  Thou  hast  Stolen  a  Jewel Massey 368 

And  Were  That  Best? Gilder    ......  233 

An  Evening  Reverie Bryant 80 

Angelic  Care E.  Spenser 528 

Annabel  Lee Poe 423 

An  October  Picture Collier 143 

An  Old  Song  Reversed Stoddard 540 

Answered P.  Vary 127 

Antony  to  Cleopatra Lytle .  358 

An  Untimely  Thought T.  B.  Aldrioh      ...  10 

A  Petition  to  Time ,    .    .  B.W.  Procter ....  444 

A  Picture      Street      ,...,.  54» 

A  Picture  of  Ellen ,     .  Seoit 477 

A  Portrait E.  B.  Browning  ...  63 

Apostrophe  to  Ada Byroti     ......  105 

Apostrophe  to  Hope Campbell    .....  117 

Apostrophe  to  Liberty Addison 3 

Apostrophe  to  Light Milton     ......  381 

Apostrophe  to  Popular  Applause Cowjier 157 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean Byron     .     .         ...  100 

Apostrojihe  to  the  Poet's  Sister Wordmoorth     ....  667 

Apostrophe  to  the  Sun Percival 411 

Apostrophe  to  the  Whimsical Crahbe 105 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness B.W.  Procter  ....  445 

April .     .     .  W.  Morri.^ 390 

A  Protest J.  T.  Fie/d.s     ....  226 

A  Question  Answered 31ach-ay  ...              .  865 

Archie ,    .  P.  Cary  ......  125 

A  Request Landor  .     .          ...  828 

Argument Tapper 617 

A  Scene  in  the  Highlands Scott 477 

A.ihe,s  of  Roses E.  Goodale      ....  287 

Asking  for  Tears S.  M.  B.  Piatt      .     .    .  421 

Ask  Me  no  More Carew     .     .         ...  118 

Ask  Me  no  More Tennynon    .....  578 

A  Sleep Pre^eott 434 

A  Snow-Drop Spoford 531 

A  Snow-Storm Ea.itman 208 

A  Song  of  Content J.J.Piatt 419 

A  Song  of  Doubt Holland. 271 

A  Song  of  Faith Holland 272 

Aspirations  after  the  Infinite Akenxiile    ....  7 

Aspirations  of  Youth Montgomeri/   ....  884 

A  Spring  Day Bloont field  '.....  40 

As  Slow  our  Ship Moore 888 

Assurance E.  B.  Browning      .    .  64 

A  State's  Need  of  Virtue Thom.\o7i 59' 

A  Strip  of  Blue Larcom. 882 

A  Summer  Mood Hayne 265 

A  Summer  Noon  at  Sea Sargent 471 

A  Sunset  Picture Falconer 218 

At  Dawn J.  O.  R.  Dorr.     .     .     ,  196 

A  Temjicst Bloomfield 40 

At  Home CO.  Itossetli      .     ,     ,  466 

A  Thought Gilder 283 

A  Thought  of  the  Past Sargent 470 

A  Thrush  in  a  Gilded  Cage Crunch 173 

At  Last ,     .    ,  Stoddard    .....  6« 


CONTEN^TS. 


At  the  Church-gate Thackeray 

At  the  Forge A.  Fields    .     . 

At  the  Last J.  C.  E.  Dorr  . 

At  Sea  - U.  H.  Brownell 

Auf  Wiedersehen Lowell     .     .     . 

Auld  Robin  Gray Barnard     .    . 

Austerity  of  Poetry M.  Arnold  .     . 

Autumnal  Sonnet Alliniiham 

Avarice E.  Spenser  .     . 

A  Voice  from  Afar Ne^vman     .     . 

Awaking  of  the  Poetical  Faculty Baker     .     .     . 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra Te^myson    .    . 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea Cunningham  . 

A  Wife Dryden  .     .     . 

A  Woman's  Love Hay    .... 

A  Woman's  Question A.  A.  Procter 


PAGE 

585 

224 

193 

59 

851 

80 

25 

IS 

525 

896 

45 

562 

180 

2U(; 

254 

44 'J 


B. 


Ballad Hood 2s4 

Barbara A.  Smith 5l'4 

Barbara  Frietchie J.  G.  Whittier     .     .     .  642 

Battle  llvmn  of  the  Kepublic Iloue 2i9 

Battle  of  the  Baltic ,    .     .     .    .     Camjihtll 114 

Bay  Billy Gassairuy 229 

Beati  Uli , Symonds 55b 

Beatitude A.  T.  l)e  Vei-e     .     .     .  •ll^(i 

Beauties  of  Morning Beattie 84 

Beautiful  Death ,     .     Dryden 200 

Beauty's  Immortality Keats 312 

Becalmed  at  Eve ,. Clouyh 131 

Beethoven Thaxttr 590 

Before  the  Bridal B.  Taylor 566 

.Before  the  Prime Osgood 403 

Behind  the  Mask Whitney 637 

Bell  and  Brook S.  T.  Coleridge    ...  130 

Bending  between  Me  and  the  Taper A.  T.  De  Vere     .     .     .  1S5 

Benevolence Sigourney  .....  500 

Betraval Lariier 829 

Bevoiid  Pvecall Bradley p2 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine Nortov 397 

Birds  and  their  Loves Thomson 503 

Blessed  are  They  that  Mourn Bryant i2 

Books             Crahhe 1<0 

Bosom  Sin     '.'..'.'.'.. Herbert        265 

,  Bovhood AlMon 19 

Break,  Break,  Break Tennyson 584 

Breathes  there  the  Man Scott 47b 

Breathings  of  Spring TTemans 260 

Broken  Friendships ,     .     .     .    .  S.  T.  Coleridge  . 

Bugle  Song Tennyson    .     .     . 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore WW'? °^^i 

Burns Halleck 249 

But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  Lose E.  D.  Proctor      ...  446 

Byron's  Remarkable  Prophecy Byron 1<« 

By  the  Autumn  Sea Hayne 2o0 

By  the  Dead Laighton 824 

c. 

Calling  the  Dead S.  M.  B.  Piatt     .     .     .  421 

Calm  and  Tempest  at  Night  on  Lake  Leman Byron Itil 

Calm  on  the  Bosom  of  our  God Henxuis m: 

Cato'a  SoUloquy Addison 4 


136 
677 


VI  CONTENTS. 


PAGI 

Cayuga  Lake Street 547 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigafie Tennyson 584 

Charity Dryden 206 

Charity G.  ^Houghton  ....  286 

Charity E.  H.  Whittier    ...  639 

Charity  Gradually  Pervasive Pope 481 

Charles  XII &  Johnson       ....  308 

Cheerfulness  in  Misfortune E.  Young 684 

Circumstance Tennyson 585 

Cleansing  Fires A.  A.  Procter      .     .     .  442 

Clear  the  Way Mat-kay 362 

Cleon  and  I Mackay 362 

Cleopatra  Embarking  on  the  Cydnus Hervey 267 

Columbus Sir  A.  De  Vere   ...  184 

Come,  Let  us  Anew Wesley 633 

Come  not  when  I  am  Dead Tennyson 585 

Come,  ye  Disconsolate Moore 887 

Compensation Cranch 174 

Complaint  and  Reproof S.  T.  Coleridge   .    .     .  141 

Complete Collier 143 

Conclusions P.  Cary 126 

Concord  Fight Emerfion 215 

Condition  of  Spiritual  Communion Tennyson 575 

Conscience E.  Young 678 

Consecration C.  F.  Bates      ....  31 

Consolation E.  B.  Browning  ...  63 

Constancy Suckling 550 

Constant  Effort  Necessai-y  to  Sujiport  Fame    ......  Shakesjudre  ....  486 

Content  and  Uich  ..." Southwell 525 

Contentatiou Cotton          154 

Contentment Thomson 597 

Contoocook  Kivei- , E.  D.  Proctor      .     .     .  447 

Controversialists Crahhe    .....  168 

Convention IToicells  ......  292 

Counsel - A.  Cary       ....  121 

Couplets  from  Locksley  Hall Tennyson 673 

Courage (;.  Houghton  ....  285 

Courage Tha^vter 589 

Courtesy J.  T.  Fields    ....  229 

Cradle  Song f/o/lund      .....  278 

Cradle  Song Tennyson 579 

Cruelty E.  Young 681 

Cuba Sargent 471 

Cui  Bono C.  Arnold 23 

Cui  Bono Carlyle 119 

Cupid  Grown  Careful     ....         Croly .         178 


D. 


Daily  Dying E.  D.  Proctor      ...  448 

Daisy G.  Houghton  ....  281 

Day  Dreaming KiinhuU 322 

Dead  Love P.  Cary 120 

Death Hunt 301 

Death Shelley 492 

Death  amid  the  Snows Thomson 593 

Death  and  Resurrection Beattie 85 

Death  in  Life AI.  M.  Dodge  ....  191 

Death  of  the  Day  ...          Landor 328 

I  )eath  the  Leveller Shirley 498 

December Jforris 398 

Decoration Higginson 269 

Delay Bushnell 86 

Departuic  of  the  Swallow W.  I/owitt 296 

Description  of  the  One  he  would  Lore Wyatt     ......  677 

Deserted  Nests ., FAelpa 417 


CONTE^'TS. 


Despite  All Drummond     ....  198 

Destiny T.  B.  A/drieh      ...  10 

Different  Sources  of  Funeral 'J'ears £'.  Young 682 

Dirge  /or  a  Soldier Boker 47 

Discontent Thaxter 5S(; 

Disdain  Returned Carew 118 

Distance  no  Barrier  to  the  Soul Cowley 156 

Divorced Lord  Houghton  .     .     .  2SS 

Dolcino  to  Margaret Kingsley 321 

Domestic  Happiness  .     .     .     ; Campbell 116 

Dorothy  Q Holmes 277 

Dreams R.  Broicning  ....  71 

Drifting Read 4.^6 

Driving  Home  the  Cows K.  P.  Osgood  ....  403 

E. 

Early  Death  and  Fame M.  Arnold- 25 

Easter-day 0.  Wilde 647 

Easter  Morning Mace 360 

East  London M.  Arnold 24 

Effect  of  Contact  with  the  World E.  Young 679 

Effort  the  Gauge  of  Greatness E.  Young 680 

Egyptian  Serenade Curtis 181 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard T.  Gray 240 

End  of  all  Earthly  Glory    ."    .     .     , SJiakenpeare   ....  487 

Endurance Allen 14 

Enviable  Age     .     , 8.  Johnson 308 

Epistle  to  Augusta Byron 95 

Epitaph Hervey 268 

Epitaph B.  Jonson 310 

Epithalamium Bvainard 52 

Equinoctial Whitney 636 

Equipoise P/eston 434 

Estrangement  through  Trifles Moore 385 

Evelyn  Hope R-  Browning  ....  69 

Evening Croly 17S 

Evening Wordsworth    ....  675 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girls'  School I/emans 262 

Evening  Song Lanier 328 

Every  Day Allen 17 

E.xcessive  Praise  or  Hlanie Pope 4-32 

E.xcess  to  be  Avoided Thomson     .....  596 

Exhortation  to  Marriage Rogers 461 

Exile  of  Erin Campbell 112 

External  Impressions  Dependent  on  the  Soul's  Moods      .     .     Crabhe 167 

Extract  from  "  A  Pveverie  in  the  Grass  " Mackay 365 


F. 

Faciebat Abbey 2 

Faith Kemble 318 

Faith  in  Doubt Tennyson 575 

Faith  in  Unfaith 8cott 479 

Falling  Stars Trench 006 

False  Appearances Shakespeare   ....  485 

False  Terrors  in  View  of  Death E.  Young 682 

Fancy Keats 311 

Fantasia Spofford 580 

Fare  Thee  Well Byron 92 

Farewell Si/monds 550 

Farewell Tliaxter 586 

Farewell,  Life ffood 283 

Fare weU  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body Sigourney  .    ...  499 


viil  CONTENTS. 


PAOE 

Farewell,  Renown Dobson 190 

Farewell  to  Nancy £urn.i 84 

Fear  no  More Skakespeure   ....  488 

Fear  of  Death Shakesfeure    ....  487 

February Moirin 389 

Field  Flowers Campbell Ill 

First  Aijpearance  at  the  Odeon J.  T.  Melds     ....  227 

Five J.  C.  It.  Dorr  ....  195 

Florence  Nightingale E.  Arnold 22 

Florence  Vane P.  P.  Cooke     ....  151 

Flowers  without  Fruit Newman      ....  396 

Folly  of  Litigation Crabbe 164 

For  a  Servant Wither 663 

For  a'  That  and  a'  That Burns 82 

For  a  Widower  or  Widow Wither 662 

Forbearance Emerson 215 

Forget  Me  Not Sargent 469 

Foreknowledge  Undesirable Tupper 620 

Forever O'Reilly 400 

Forever  Ilnconfessed Lord  Houghton    .    .     .  288 

Forever  with  the  Lord Montgomery    ....  385 

For  his  Child's  Sake       TennyKon 577 

France Goldsmith 236 

Friend  after  Friend  Departs Monlgoni ery    ....  384 

Friendship Simms 503 

Friendship  in  Age  and  Sorrow Crabbe 168 

From  "  Absalom " Willis 654 

From  "  A  Preacher  " Webster 629 

From  a  "  Vision  of  Spring  in  Winter  " Stvinburne 552 

From  "  Childhood  " Vaughan 622 

From  "  Christmas  Antiphones " Sivinburne      ....  556 

From  "Dejection" 8.  T.  Coleridge    .     .     .  136 

From  "  Eloisa  to  Abelard  " Pope 429 

From  Friend  to  Friend Symonds 560 

From  "  Intimations  of  Immortality  " Wordx-irorth    ....  670 

From  Mire  to  Blossom  .     .     .     . <S.  Longfelloic  ....  346 

From  "No  Age  is  Content"  . Earl  of  Surrey    .     .    .  551 

From  "  Poverty  " Wither 662 

From  "  Pailes  and  Lessons"  . Vaughan 624 

From  "St.  Mary  Magdalene " Vaughan 622 

From  "  The  Christian  Politician  "       Vaughan 623 

From  the  Flats Lanier 328 

From  the  "  Lay  of  Horatius  " Macaulay 354 

From  "  The  Ode  on  Shakespeare  " Sprague 534 

From  "  The  SeiLSitive  Plant " Shelley 493 

From  "  To  a  Lady  with  a  Guitar  " Shelley    ......  495 


G. 


Ganging  to  and  Ganging  frae E.  Cook 150 

Garden  Song      . Tennyson 580 

Genius Byr07i 09 

George  Eliot Phelps 416 

Glasgow A.  Smith 505 

Gleaner's  Song Bloom  field 48 

God's  Patience Preston 485 

God,  the  only  Just  Judge Burnx 85 

Goethe  (Memorial  Verses) M.  Arnold 25 

Go,  Forget  mo Wolfe 665 

Go  not,  Happy  Day Tennynon 581 

Good  Life.  Long  Life Johnson 810 

Good  Counsel  of  I'olonius  to  Laertes Shakespeare  ....  485 

Good  Morrow //e>/iriiod 268 

Good  Nows Kimball 319 

Good  Night       Shelley 495 

Greece Byron 105 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Green  Things  Growing Craik 

Grief  for  the  Loss  of  the  Dead Quarles 

Guardian  Spirits Rogers 

Gulf-weed Fenner 


I'AGB 

170 
45i 
464 
2-24 


638 
192 
461 
333 
319 
481 
529 
448 


H. 

Hallowed  Ground Campbell 108 

Hand  in  Hand  with  Angels Larcom 832 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes       Larcom 329 

Happiness  in  Little  Things  of  the  Present Trench 605 

Happy  are  They A.  T.  De  Vere      ...  185 

Harmosan Trench 606 

Harsh  Judgments Faber 216 

Harvesting Bloomfield 41 

Harvest  Time Thomson 592 

Health  Jfocessary  to  Happy  Life Thomson 597 

Heart  pjssential  to  Genius Simms 502 

Heart-glow Whitney      .     .     . 

Heart  Uracles M.  31.  Dodge  .     . 

Heart  Superior  to  Head Rogeis     .... 

Heaven  near  the  Virtuous Larcoin    .... 

Heliotrope Kimball  .... 

Helvellyn Scott 

Hereafter SpofforO.       .    .     . 

Heroes £■./>.  Proctor .     . 

Hester Lamb 325 

Hidden  Sins O'Reilly 401 

Hints  of  Pre-existence Tapper   ......  619 

History  of  a  Life B.  W.  Procter      ...  445 

Hohenlinden Campbell 112 

Homage Winter 659 

Home  and  Heaven Very 627 

Home,  "A' oundod Dobell !  189 

Hope Goldsmith 237 

Hope  for  All Tennyson 574 

Hope  in  Adversity Campbell 116 

How  are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred  ? Stoddard 541 

How  Delicious  is  the  Winning Campbell 110 

How  the  Heart's  Ease  first  Came Herrick 266 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghignt  to  Aix     .     .  R.Browning.     ...  70 

Hudson  River Parsons 408 

Husban  1  to  Wife Tennyson 579 

Hymn  1  efore  Sunrise  in  the  Valley  of  Chamouni    .     .     .     .  S.  T.  Coleridge    ...  138 

Hymn  for  Anniversary  Marriage  Davs Withers 662 

Hymn  to  Trust '.     .  ' Holmes 279 

Hymn  to  Contentment Parnell 4(»7 

Hymn  to  Cynthia Jonson 310 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers H.  Smith 510 


I. 


I  Count  my  Time  by  Times  that  I  Meet  Thee 
Ideals 


I  Die  for  tliv  Sweet  Love  .     . 

If     ...  ■ 

IfthisBeAU 

If  Thou  Wert  by  my  Side  .  . 
IfWeHadbuta  Day  .  .  . 
If  You  Love  Me  .  .  .  .  . 
I  in  'I'hee  and  Thou  in  Me  .  . 
Ilka  Blade  o'  Grass  Keps  its  ain 
lU-fihosen  Pursuits  .... 
Ill-christened 


i)rap 


Gilder 232 

Fawcett       219 

B.  W.  Procter     ...  446 

M.  R.  Smith     ....  513 

A.  Bronte 53 

Heber 258 

Dickinson 188 

L.  Clark 128 

Cranch 176 

Ballantine 28 

Tapper 614 

Tupptr 618 


CONTENTS. 


pa(;k 

II  Penseroso Milton 37fi 

Imagined  Reply  of  Eloisa Howe       ......  2f  !> 

I'm  Growing  Old  .     .     .     .' Saxe 474 

Imitation Richardson    ....  459 

Immortality J/.  Arnold 24 

Impressions  du  Matin O.  Wilde 64S 

In  a  Graveyard Hay •lo'^'i 

In  an  Hour Perry 41. t 

In  Arabia J.  B.' Bensel     ....  38 

In  a  Year E.  Brovmi'ng  ....  6S 

In  Blossom  Time Coolhrith 153 

Incompleteness A.  A.  Procter      .    .    .  44". 

Independence Thomson 594  ■ 

I  Never  Cast  a  Flower  away C.  B.  Sovihey      .     .     .  M5 

In  Extremis J.  T.  Fields     ....  226 

In  Garfield's  Danger Brackett 52 

Ingratitude Shakespeare    ....  4S4 

In  Kittery  Churchyard Thaxter 589 

In  Memory  of  Barry  Cornwall Swinburne      ....  5.52 

In  no  Haste Landor 3i:" 

In  Praise  of  his  Lady  Love  Compared  with  all  Others  .     .     .  Earl  of  Svrrey    .     .     .  551 

In  School  Days J.  G.  Whiitier     ...  640 

Inscription Byron 94 

In  Struggle E.  B.  Brou-}iiny       .     .  67 

InsuflBciency  of  the  World E.   Yoiiiir/ 6S0 

In  the  Dark G.  Arnold 23 

In  the  Meadows B.  Taylor 566 

In  the  Quiet  of  Nature       Cotton 154 

In  View  of  Death M.  Cvllins 144 

I  prithee  Send  me  back  my  Heart Suckling 650 

1  Remember,  I  Remember Hood 280 

I  Saw  from  the  Beach Moore 887 

Isolation E.  Gray 240 

I  Wandered  by  the  Brook  side Lord  lioughton    .     .     .  287 

I  will  Abide  in  thine  House Whitney 638 

I  will  not  Love Landor 828 


Jasmine Hayne 251 

Jeanie  Morrison •    •   - Motherwell      ....  892 

Jerusalem  the  Golden Massey 367 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul Wesley 632 

John  Anderson  my  Jo Bums          SI 

Joy  to  be  Shared E.   Yidiiuj 978 

Judge  Not A.  A.  rroeler       .     .     .  440 

Judgment  in  Studying  it Hryden 205 

June Bryant    ....          .73 

June /jncell .S51 

Just  Judgment Pope        432 

Justice Richardson     ....  459 

K. 

Keep  Faith  in  Love Miller 374 

Kindness  first  Known  in  a  Hospital E.  B.  Bronming  .    .    .  66 


Labor Lord  Hoxglitun  .     .     .     ~'^''> 

Laborarc  est  Orare F.  S.  Osgood    ....     402 

Lady  Clare  Vere  de  Vera Tennyson 583 


CONTENTS.  xi 


PAGE 

Lagrimaa       JTai/ 255 

Lake  George Hillard 269 

L'AlIegro Milton 3T5 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims Hemans 2ti» 

Latvae       Whitney 638 

Last Allen       .^ 15 

Last  Lines E.  Bronte 54 

Last  Verses       M.  Collins 144 

Last  Verses       Mothertcell      ....  391 

Last  Words       S.  M.  B.  Piatt     ...  419 

Late  Valuation Tapper 620 

Launch  thy  Bark,  Mariner C.  B.  Southey       .     .    .  514 

Laura,  my  Darling .Stedman 535 

Learning  is  Labor Crahbe 164 

Letters Tapper 615 

Life Barbauld 28 

Life Bryant 76 

Life A.  Cary 119 

Life Crahbe 168 

Life B.   W.  Procter     ...  444 

Life Tapper 620 

Life  from  Death Holland 273 

Life  in  Death Savage 472 

Life's  Mystery A.  Cary 122 

Life's  Mystery Stoice 544 

Life's  Theatre ShaA-e.yjeare  ....  484 

Life's  Vicissitudes '^halcenjieare  ....  487 

Life  will  be  Gone  ere  I  have  Lived ('.Bronte 54 

Light Boardillon      ....  50 

Light  on  the  Cloud Savage 473 

Light  Shining  out  of  Darkness Cowper 157 

Like  a  Laverock  in  the  Lift fean  Ingeloiv      .     .     .  307 

Like  as  a  Nurse Vanr/han 626 

Listening  for  God (hinnett 228 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit llerrick 266 

Little  Jerry,  the  Miller Save 474 

Little  Kindnesses Talfonrd 562 

Little  Martin  Craghan GuxUifs^on 245 

Little  Mattie E.  B. 'Browning .     .     .  61 

Lone  Mountain  Cemetery Bret  Harte      ....  252 

Long  Ago //.//.  Broicnell  ...  59 

Lord  Byron Pnllok 428 

Lord,  Many  Times  I  Am  Aweary Trench 603 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter I'anipbell Ill 

Losses Brown 56 

Lost  Days D.  <i.  Jios.setti      ...  468 

Love Hotta 50 

Love S:  Batter 87 

Love Byron 97 

Love S'.'  T.  Coleridge   ...  141 

Love •>roti 478 

Love Tenny.-ion 579 

Love  Bettered  by  Time //.»«/' 284 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Educutioii S'.  7'.  Coleridge   .     .     .  140 

Love  in  Age Tiltini 598 

Love  me  if  I  Live A'.    11'.  Procter     .     .     .  444 

Love  of  Country  and  of  Home Vontgontery   ....  382 

Love  of  tlie  Country Bloonifield 42 

Love  Reluctant  to  Endanger //.  Taylor 570 

Love's  Reward Board illon      ....  50 

Love  shall  Save  us  all Thavter 588 

Love's  Immortahty H-  Soathey 517 

Love's  Jealousy (lilder 233 

Love's  Sonnets lioker      ...          .     .  46 

Love's  Philosophy Shelley 492 

Love,  the  Retriever  of  Past  Losses Shaki'speare   ....  489 

Love,  the  Solace  of  Present  Calamity Shak-esjinire   ....  488 

Love  Unalterable Shaicevpeare   ....  489 


xii  CONTENTS. 


FAGS 

Low  Spirits Faber 217 

Lucy Wordsworth   ....    672 


M. 


Madonna  Mia O.  Wilde 647 

Maiden  and  Weathercock If.  W.  Longfellow   .     .  343 

Maid  of  Athens Byron 94 

Major  and  Minor Curtis 181 

Make  thine  Angel  Glad O.  F.  Bates      ....  31 

Making  Peace 8.  31.  B.  Piatt      ...  420 

Man Pope 430 

Man  and  Woman Tennyson 578 

Manhood Simms 503 

Man's  Dislike  to  be  Led Crabbe 165 

Man's  Restlessness Uogers 461 

Man  was  Made  to  Mourn Burns 85 

Maple  Leaves T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  12 

March Morris 389 

Marco  Bozzaris Ilalleck 248 

Masks T.  B.  Aldrioh      ...  12 

Maud  MuUer J.  G.  Whittier    ...  643 

May  and  the  Poets Hunt 301 

May  in  Kingston Abbey 2 

May  to  April Freneau 228 

Measure  for  Measure Spofford 681 

Melancholy Hood 279 

Melrose  Abbey  by  Moonlight Scott 478 

Memorial  Hall Oranoh 174 

Memory Goldsmith 237 

Memory Roger's 463 

Mene,  Mene Symonds 55£ 

Mental  Beauty Akenside 7 

Mental  Supremacy Tupper 616 

Mercy Slutkespienre  ....  486 

Mercy  to  Animals Cowper 100 

Middle  Life //edderwick  ....  258 

Midnight Brownell 58 

Midsummer Trowbridge    ....  609 

Midwinter Trowbridge    ....  608 

Mine  Own Leland 389 

Misspent  time .1.  De  Vere     ....  184 

Monterey Hoffman 270 

Morning  and  Evening  by  the  Sea J.  T.  Fields    ....  225 

Move  Eastward,  Happy  Earth Tennyson 585 

Music  in  the  Air Curtis 181 

Music  when  Soft  Voices  Die Shelley 492 

Mutability Shelley 495 

My  Ain  Oountree Demarest 183 

My  Child Pierpont 422 

My  Comrade  and  I     .     . ' Troiobridge    ....  613 

My  Heid  is  like  to  Rend,  Willie Mothifirell      ....  391 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose It.  II.   Wilde    ....  649 

My  Little  Boy  that  Died Craik 172 

My  Love  is  on  her  Way Baillie 27 

My  Old   Straw  Hat E.  Cook 150 

My  Own  Song Spofford 531 

My  Playmate J.  U.  Whittier    ...  646 

My  Psalm J.  G.  Whittier    ...  641 

My  Slain Realf 467 

My  Window  Uj M.  M.  Dodge  ....  191 


CONTENTS. 


XUl 


N. 


Nameless  Pain T.  B.  Aldrich 

Nantasket Clemmer 

Natura  Naturans Clough    . 

Nature H.  W.  Longfellow 

Nature Very  .     .     . 

Nature's  Joy  Inalienable Thomson    . 

Nature's  Lesson Freaion  .     . 

Nature's  Need Sir  /I.Taylor 

Nature's  Question  and  Faith's  Answer £.  jSouihey 

Nature's  Reverence J.  O.  W/iitiier 

Nearer  Home P-  Cary .     . 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee S  F.  Adams 

N earing  the  Snow-line Holmes   .     . 

New  Life,  New  Love Symonds     . 

New  Worlds G.  P.  Lathrop 

Night Lasariis 

Night P-  Souihey 

Night  Storm Simms    .     . 

No  Life  Vain ff.  Coleridge 

No  More   .     , Clough   .     . 

No  Ring Cary  .     .     . 

No  Spring  without  the  Beloved S/ia/cespeare 

Not  at  All,  or  All  in  All Tennyson    . 

Not  for  Naught .  K   Elliott  . 

Nothing  but  Leaves Akerman    . 

November H.Coleridge 

Now  and  Afterwards Craik      .     . 

Now  Lies  the  Earth Tennyson  . 


PAGB 

.  10 

.  130 

.  132 

.  342 

.  627 

.  596 

.  435 

.  571 

.  515 

.  645 

.  123 

3 

.  278 

.  659 

.  834 

.  337 

.  616 

.  503 

.  124 

.  131 

.  122 

.  489 

.  680 

.  212 

8 

.  134 

.  170 

.  578 


0. 

Ode Emerson 218 

Ode  on  'a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton T.  Gray 244 

Ode  on  Art '^''55^'/? fA 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson W.  Collins 14& 

Ode  on  the  Poets ^^<^J;« ^11 

Ode  on  the  Spring -^  fray i6i 

Ode  to  a  Mountain  Oak Boker 4d 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Coin ct  ^^* 'wj,  O    '    '    '    '  aq^ 

Ode  to  Disappointment r/    /   ""-"^  *     '     '    '  oVo 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale ii/^i^n- T,7 

Ode  to  Evening W.  Cohns 147 

Ode  to  Simplicity ^-  <^ollins 144 

Ode  to  the  Brave W  Cplhns 14. 

Off  Labrador Oolher 142 

Of  Myself              Cowley 145 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night foore 380 

Oh  !  Watch  you  Well  by  Daylight Lover a4. 

Oh  :  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud  ?     .     .     .     .  Knox      ......  avi 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill Macdonald     .    .    .    .  rf59 

Old   .     .    : ^y\ 29# 

Old  Age  and  Death Waller b^» 

Old  Familiar  Faces y"„,.  , ono 

t)  may  I  Join  the  Choir  Invisible G.  Kliot ^wj 

On  a  Child ^"^„'''''   •••••••  fii 

OnlyaCuri E^B  Broxomng      .    .  65 

On  a  Girdle ??""".^ a 

On  a  Sermon  against  Glorv Akenside * 

On  Completing  my  Thirty-Sixth  Year Bt/ron Hi( 

On  Doves  and  Serpents ^""f  „  ••••••  YaI, 

One  by  One  . A.A.Procter     ...  440 

One  Presence  Wanting ^P'""- ^^'* 

One  Word  is  too  often  Profaned 


490 


xiv  CONTENTS. 


On  Us  Blindness Milton 379 

Only Hugeman 247 

Only  Waiting Mace 360 

On  Man Qxiarles 451 

On  Reaching  Twenty-Three Milton 380 

On  Reading  Chapman's  Homer Keats 314 

On  Sin Quarles 451 

On  the  Bluff ^fay 254 

On  the  Death  of  John  Rodman  Drake Halleck 251 

On  the  Headland B.  Taylor 564 

On  the  Hillside Symonda 559 

On  the  Lake Webster 631 

On  the  Life  of  Man Quarles 451 

On  the  Reception  of  Wordsworth,  at  Oxford Tal/onrcl 562 

On  the  Picture  of  a  Child  Tired  of  Play Willis 651 

On  the  Righi Holland 275 

On  the  Shortness  of  Life Cowley 156 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey Beaumont 37 

On  Time " Milton 374 

On  True  and  False  Taste  in  Music W.Collins 145 

Other  Mothers Butts 89 

O  Thou  who  Dry'st  the  Mourner's  Tears Moore 386 

Our  Homestead P-  Cary 127 

Our  Neighbor Spofford 530 

Our  Own Sangster 468 

Ours •     Preston 434 

Out  of  the  Deeps  of  Heaven Stoddard 542 

()  ye  Tears Mackay 364 

P. 

Pain  and  Pleasure Stoddard 542 

Palmistry Spofford 530 

Passage  from  the  Prelude A.  Fields 225 

Paternal  Love Scott 478 

Patience Richardson     ....  459 

Patience Trench 604 

Payments  In  Store Scott 479 

Peace Vaughan 622 

Peace  and  Pain O'Keilly 399 

Penance  of  the  Ancient  Mariner S.  T.  Coleridge   ...  135 

Peradventure J.  C.  It.  Dorr  ....  194 

Perfect  Love E.  B.  Broioning  ...  64 

Persia Mitchell 870 

Pescadero  Pebbles Savage 472 

Philip  my  King Craik 171 

Philosophy Crahhe 169 

Picture  of  Marian  Erie E.B.Browning.     .     .  67 

Pleasant  Prospect Lazarus 336 

Pleasure  Mixed  with  Pain Wyatt 677 

Plighted Craik 171 

Poor  Andrew E.  KUiott 211 

Power  of  Poesv i.  T.  De  Vere      ...  18-4 

Power  of  the  World E.  Young 683 

Prayer Montgomery   ....  3S4 

Procrastination Tapper 621 

Procrastination  and  Forgetfulness  of  Death E.  Young 677 

Progress  in  Denial Simms 501 

Prometheus Byron 91 

Proposal B.  Taylor 565 

Prospice R-  Browning  ....  68 

Providence Vaughan 623 

Pure  and  Happy  Love Thomson 591 

Purity <'■  llotighton   ....  286 

Pursuit  and  Possession T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  11 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


Q. 


PAGE 

Quebec  at  Sunrise Street 545 

Quebec  At  Sunset Street .'..'...'.    545 

Questionings Hedge     ...!!!    259 


R. 

Rattle  the  Window Stoddard 541 

Reading  the  Milestone J.J.Piatt 418 

Real  Estate Troichridge    ....  610 

Rpison  an  aid  to  Revelation Cou-lcy 158 

Rebecca's  Hymn Scott !  479 

Recognition  of  a  Congenial  Spirit Moore      '..'..'.'.  3S5 

Recompense ' Simm'<     ......  b&i 

Recompense. Ti/toii 601 

Reconciliation Tenm/son 577 

Refuge  from  Doubt Miller 373 

Kegret q,  Houghton    '.'.'.'.  285 

Relaxation //.  Taylor 571 

Remedial  Suffering R,  Sonthey 516 

Remember Lazarii.i      ....'.  338 

Remember c.  (i.  Iios.<:etti      ...  465 

Repose r/ioi,inon 595 

Remembrance E,  Bronte .>4 

Remorse '.     .     .  Hay    .     .     .     .     .  &S 

Rencontre T.  B.  Aid  rich.    .     !    .  11 

Requiescat o.  Wilde 648 


Reverie Thaxter  . 

Resigning Craik      . 

Riches  of  a  Man  of  Taste Al-enxide 

Ring  out,  Wild  Bells Tennyson 

Hipe  Grain Goodale . 

Rock  me  to  Sleep Allen  .  '  . 

Rondel ....  Fay 


Rosaline Lodge      . 

Rose  Aylmer Landor  . 

Rubies Landor  . 

Rule,  Britannia Thomson 


587 
172 
6 
576 
237 
15 
222 
340 
328 
327 
597 


s. 


Sabbath  Morning Grahame    .    . 

Sadness  Born  of  Beauty Trench    .     .     . 

Sailor's  Song O,  p,  Lathrop 

Sands  of  Dee Kingnlev     .     . 

Saturday  Afternoon Wilii.s    \     .     . 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower Norton    .     .     . 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet WorrtMoorth    . 

Secrets Wheeler.     .     . 

Seeking  the  Mayflower Siedman      .     . 

Self Symondu     .    . 

Self-dependence M,  Arnold  .     . 

Selfishness  of  Introspection E.  B.  Browning 

Serve  God  and  be  Cheerful N'etuell    .     .     .' 

She  and  He E.  Arnold    .     . 

Sheridan's  Ride Bead  .... 

She's  Gane  to  Dwell  in  Heaven (hmningham  . 

She  Walks  in  Beauty Byron     .     .     . 

She  Was  a  Phantom"  of  Delisrht Wordsworth    . 

Silent  Songs Stoddard    .     . 

Silhouettes O.  Wilde     .     . 

Since  All  that  is  not  Heaven  must  Fade Keble  .... 


289 

603 
335 
321 
651 
396 
(i75 
638 
538 
560 

25 

66 
395 

20 
453 
160 

93 
674 
542 
648 

16 


Xvi  CONTENTS. 


PAQB 

Since  Yesterday Lord  Houghton   .    .    .  286 

Sir  Marmaduke's  ^fusinirs Tilton 601 

Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Pompeii Landon 827 

Sleep T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  11 

Sleep Byron 97 

Sleep  and  I^eath Fay 222 

Sleej)  the  Detractor  of  Beauty Crahbe 163 

Snatches  of  Mirth  ia  a  Dark  Life Baillie 27 

Soft,  Brown,  Smiling  Eyes Granch 176 

Softly  Woo  away  her  Breath B.  W.  Procter     .     .     .  446 

Solace  of  the  Woods Simms 501 

Solitude ff.  K.  White   ....  634 

Somebody's  Darling Lacoste 823 

Somebody  Older F.  Smith 509 

Some  Day  of  Days Perry 416 

Sometime M.  R.  Smith    ....  518 

Somewhere Saxe 474 

Song Campbell 115 

Song //.  Coleridge  ....  184 

Song CO.  Rofiketti      ...  465 

Song  of  a  Fellow- worker O'S/iattg/niesdy   .     .     .  404 

Song  of  Egla Brooks 55 

Song  of  the  Hempseed E.  Cook 149 

Song  of  the  Ugly  jMaiden E.  Cook 151 

Song  on  May  Morning 3Wton 878 

Songs  of  Seven Ingeloiv 301 

Songs  Unsung Stoddard 541 

Sonnet O.  Wilde     .....  648 

Sonnet  Composed  on  Leaving  England Keats 311 

Sonnets  from  "  Intellectual  Isolation " Symonds     .     .     .-.     .  561 

Sonnet  on  Ohillon Byioit 93 

Sonnet  to  Hope WiJIiamn 650 

Sonnet  to  Sleep Sidney 499 

Soul  of  my  Soul Sargent 469 

Soul  to  Soul Tennynon 575 

Sound  Sleep C.  G.  Rometti      .     .     .  465 

Spent  and  Misspent    .' A.  Gary 121 

Spiritual  Feelers Tapper 615 

Squandered  Lives B.  Taylor 566 

Stanzas  from  "  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  " Milton- 879 

Stanzas  from  "  Casa  Wappy  " Moir 381 

Stanzas  from  "  Service " J.  T.  Troii;hridge    .     .  612 

Stanzas  from  "Song  of  the  Flowers" Hunt 299 

Stanzas  from  the  "Tribute  to  a  Servant" Hoive 290 

Stanzas  from  "The  True  Use  of  Music" Wenley 682 

Stanzas  from  "  The  Schoolmistress  " Shenstone 496 

Stanzas  in  Prospect  of  Death Burna 88 

Stay,  Stay  at  Home,  my  Heart n.  W.  Longfellow    .    .  342 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave Prexton 435 

Storm  at  Appledore Lotvell 352 

Strength  through  Resisted  Temptation Holland 278 

Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray A.  A.  Procter      ...  443 

Strong  Son  of  God     .' Tennyson 574 

Submission  to  Supreme  Wisdom Pope 430 

Success  Alone  Seen Landon 826 

Sufficient  unto  the  Day Sangnler 468 

Summer  Dawn  at  Loch  Katrine Scott 476 

Summer  Longings McCarthy 369 

Summer  Rain Bennett 88 

Sum  up  at  Night Herbert 264 

Sundays Vaughan 624 

Sunlight  and  Starlight Whitney 688 

Sun  of  the  Sleepless Byron 92 

Sunrise O.    Wilde 648 

Sunset  in  Moscow E.  D.  Proctor      .     .    .  449 

Sweet  Meeting  of  Deslrss Patmore 410 


C02sTJ£JSlS.  xvii 


T. 


PAGE 

Tears,  Idle  Tears • Tennyson 577 

Tell  me,  ye  Winged  Winds Mackay 866 

Thinatopsis Bryant 74 

Thankfulness A.  A.  Procter      ...  440 

Thanksgiving Ilowelln 292 

That  New  World S.  M.  B.  Piatt      ...  420 

The  Adieu //  //.  HrowneU  ...  58 

The  Aged  Oak  at  Oakley Alfarrt 13 

The  American  Fl.ig Drake 197 

The  Ancient  Mariner  Eefreshed H.  T.  Coleridge   ...  135 

Tb^  Angels  Kiss  Her A.  T.  De  Vere     .     .     .  IS9 

The  Angel's  Wing Lorer 347 

The  Apollo,  and  Venus  of  Medici Thoninoti .595 

The  Artist's  Dread  of  Blindness Wehster 030 

The  Ascent  to  Fame Bcatiie 34 

The  Avoidance  of  Religious  Disjjutes Drydeii 205 

The  Awful  Vacancy Crahhe 1fi5 

The  Baby Macdonald      ....  359 

The  Ballad  of  Baby  Bell T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  8 

The  Barefoot  Boy J.  G.  Whittier    .    .     .  0.39 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim R.  SovJhey 520 

The  I5ees Trench 005 

The  Belfry  Pigeon Willis 053 

The  Bells" Poe 424 

The  Bible Drt/den 204 

The  Bird  Let  Loose Moore 386 

The  Blessed  Damozel D.  G.  liosseiti     ...  467 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray Finch 227 

The  Blue-bird"s  Song Street 549 

The  Bower  of  Adam  and  Eve Milton 380 

The  Brave  at  Home B.  Read 456 

The  Bride  Beautiful,  Body  and  Soul E.  Spenser      ....  .524 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs I/ood 282 

The  Broom  Flower IJonitt 294 

The  Burial  of  Moses Alexander 12 

The  Burial  of  the  Champion  of  his  Class Willis 652 

The  Busts  of  Goethe  and  Schiller W.A.Butler.    ...  88 

The  Caliph's  Magnanimity Ahhey 1 

The  Canadian  Spring Street .546 

The  Captive  Soul E.Spenser .525 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore R.  Southey 521 

The  Cavalier's  Song Motherwell      ....  392 

The  Child  and  the  Autumn  Leaf Locer 347 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners Mackn  )i 361 

The  Child  and  the  Sea M.  M.  Dodge  ....  192 

The  Child  Musician Dobson !90 

The  Children Dickinson 187 

The  Charms  of  Nature Beattie 34 

The  Close  of  Spring C.  T.  Smith     ....  507 

The  Closing  Scene Rend       4.54 

The  Cloud Shelley 492 

The  Common  Lot Monti/'onieri/   ....  333 

The  Condemned Crab'he    .!....  106 

The  Conqueror Tap/ier 610 

The  Conqueror's  Grave Bryant 79 

The  Coral  Grove Percival 413 

The  Coral  Insect Si(ioHrney 500 

The  Covered  Bridge Harker 29 

The  Cricket C.  T.  Smith     ....  507 

The  Crowded  Street Bryant 78 

The  Crowning  Disappointment E.   Young 679 

The  Cry  of  the  Human E.  B.  lirincning .     .     .  66 

n.e  Cuckoo Logan 341 

r'ip  Curtain  of  the  Dark Larcom 330 

i  he  Datt'odils Wordsworth    .     .         .671 


xviii  COJSl  TENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Dead  Bee F.  Bates 32 

The  Dead  Christ    .' Borne 291 

The  Deaf  Dalesman Wordsworth    ....  669 

The  Death-bed Hood 281 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Tear Tennyson 582 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous Barbanld 28 

The  Development  of  Poetic  Creations Akeiiside .5 

The  Diamond Trench 606 

The  Ditference BonrdiUon      ....  51 

The  Dignity  and  Patience  of  Genius Tapper 615 

The  Discoverer Stedman ."538 

The  Distant  in  Nature  and  Experience Camj)heU 115 

The  Doorstep Stedman 537 

The  Ebb  Tide R.  Southey 522 

The  End  of  "the  Virtuous E.    Young 680 

The  Ermine Trench 605 

The  Evening  Cloud Wilson 657 

The  Evening  Wind Bryant 76 

The  Faded  \'iolet T.B.  Aldrich      ...  11 

The  Familv  Meeting Sprague 533 

The  Kate  of  Poverty Johnson 309 

The  Father B.  Taylor 564 

The  Ferry  of  Galloway A.  Cary 120 

The  First  Day  of  Death Byron 97 

The  First  Grav  Hair T.  H.  Bayly    ....  33 

The  First  Spring  Day C.  Q.  Rossettl      ...  465 

The  Flight  of  Youth H.  Coleridge  ....  133 

The  Flight  of  Youth Stoddard 540 

The  Flower  o'  Dumblane Taniiahill       ....  563 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest J.  Elliot 210 

The  Flowers  in  the  Ground S.  M.  B.  Piatt     ...  421 

The  Folly  of  Hoarding Thomson. 596 

The  Force  of  Tritles Tupper 619 

The  Fountain  of  Youth Butterworth    ....  89 

The  Four  Seasons Tilton 600 

The  Freedom  of  the  Good Powper 158 

The  Free  Mind Garrison 229 

The  Fringed  Gentian Bryant 77 

The  Future  Life Bryant 78 

The  Generosity  of  Nature Lon'ell 349 

The  Gift    ..  ■ Webster       631 

The  Glory  of  Death E.  Young 681 

The  Golden  Hand J.  J.  Piatt 418 

The  Golden  Silence Winter 661 

The  Good  Time  Coming Mackay 363 

The  Grasshopper  and  Cricket Huni 300 

The  Greenwood Boieles 51 

The  Groomsman  to  his  Mistress Parsons 410 

The  Happiness  of  Passing  one's  Age  in  Familiar  Places   .    .  Goldsmith 235 

The  Health Stoddard 542 

The  Heliotrope Mace 361 

The  Heritage Loiuell 348 

The  Highest  Good Parker 406 

The  Holly  Tree R.  Southey      ....  518 

The  Horse  of  Adonis Shakespeare  ....  488 

The  Hour  of  Death ffemans 261 

The  Housekeeper Lamb 325 

The  Human  Tie M.  M.  Dodge  ....  191 

The  Humble  Bee Emerson 214 

The  Husband  and  Wife's  Grave Dana 181 

The  Iconoclast R.  T.  Cooke     ....  152 

The  Inner  Calm Bonar 48 

The  Invocation ffemans 261 

The  Isles  of  Greece Byron 98 

The  Ivy  Green       Dickens 187 

The  Kingliest  Kings Massey 368 

The  Kitten Baillie 26 

The  Lack  of  Children R.  Browning  ....  7J 


CONTENTS.  xix 


pa(;e 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine H.  W.  Longfelloxo    .    .  341 

The  Lad}'  Jaqueline p.  Gary 124 

The  Land  of  the  Leal Nairn 894 

The  Last  Appeal Kimball      .     .     .     .     !  320 

The  Las,t  Man Campbell 109 

The  Lent  Jewels Trench    ......  604 

The  Lesson  of  the  Bee Botta       50 

The  Lie     ...    ■. Raleigh 452 

The  Light  in  the  Window Maekay .S64 

The  Light  of  Reason Dryden 204 

The  Lily-pond O.  P.  Lathrop     .     .     .  334 

The  Little  Shroud Landon 326 

The  Long  White  Seam Inrjelow 307 

The  Lost  May B.  Taylor 567 

The  Love-letter J.J,  Piatt 418 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  Girding  for  Battle   .     .          R.  Southey 517 

The  Marriage  of  Despair Brooks 56 

The  Meeting ,     ....  II.  W.  Longfellow    .     .  342 

The  Means  to  Attain  Happy  Life Earl  of  Surrey   .     .     .  5.51 

The  Midges  Dance  aboon  the  Burn Tann'ahill 563 

The  Misery  of  Excess Byron 100 

The  Model  Preacher Dryden 207 

The  Mood  of  Exaltation A.  T.  De  Vere     ...  186 

The  Mother's  Grief Coolbrith 154 

The  Mysteries Honelln 292 

The  Mystery B.  Taylor 567 

The  Mystery  of  Life Sir  II.  Taylor      ...  570 

The  Mulberries llotcellx  .  ' 292 

Then R.T.Cooke 1.53 

The  Name  in  the  Bark Troubridge    ....  607 

The  Nifrhtingale Trench 605 

The  Nun  and  Harp Spofford 529 

The  Nuns'  Song Tennymn 581 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain Trov'bridge    ....  611 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts,  and  how  he  Gained  them       .     .    .     R.  Southey 517 

The  Old  Man's  Motto Saa-e 473 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket Woodworih     ....  666 

The  Old  Schoolhouso Rogers 464 

The  Old  Sergeant Wi/.lson 655 

The  Old  Story Prescoit 433 

The  Old  Tear  and  the  New G.  F.  Bates      ....  31 

The  One  Fniver.sal  Sympathy E.  B.  Browning .     .     .  67 

The  Only  Light Wesley 632 

The  Organist K.  L.  Bates     ....  32 

The  Other  Life  the  End  of  This E.  Young 681 

The  Other  World Stotce 544 

The  Paradise  of  Cabul Michell 371 

The  Parting       Drayton 198 

The  Passage  from  Birth  to  Age Rogers    .......  462 

The  Passions Collins 145 

The  Past Bryant 73 

The  Pauper's  Deathbed C.  A.  B.  Southey      .     .  514 

The  Pauper's  Funeral R.  Southey 519 

The  Perils  of  Genius Crabhe 163 

The  Perpetuity  of  Song J.  T.  Fields     ....  225 

The  Perversion  of  Great  Gifts Rogern 460 

The  Petrified  Fern Branch 53 

The  Picket  Guard .     .     Beers 35 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers ....     Pierpont 422 

The  Pleasures  Arising  from  Vicissitude Gray 248 

The  Poet     .       .     .     : Landon 327 

The  Poet's  Friends I/owells 292 

The  "Poet's  Praver" E.Elliott 212 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife B.  W.  Procter     ...  445 

ThePoplar  Field Cowper 157 

The  Ponte  di  P.aradiso Symonds r)60 

The  Post-boy Couper 161 

The  Power  of  Suggestion Tu/jper 617 


XX  CONTENTS. 


PAGi; 

The  Prairie Hay 253 

The  Prayer  to  Mnemosyne Symonds 560 

The  Press K.  E/liott 211 

The  Pressed  Gentian J.  G.  Whittier    .     .     .  ft46 

The  Press  of  Sorrow Holland 273 

The  Primrose Hervick 266 

The  Problem Emerson 213 

The  Prodigals Dobfton   .  ■ 190 

The  Prophet's  Soug Goldsmith 23T 

The  Prop  of  Faith WorJ.ncori?i    ....  668 

The  Pulley Herbert 263 

The  Purple  of  the  Poet F.Smith 50  < 

The  Pursuit Vaughan 022 

The  Question Winter 660 

The  Raven A.  Poe 425 

There  is  Nothing  New  under  the  Sun Gilder 231 

There'll  Come  a  Dav Preston 436 

The  Restored  Pictures Troicbridge    ....  608 

The  Return  of  Kane Brotonell 57 

The  Rhodora Emerson 214 

The  Ride  of  Collins  Graves O'Beilly 399 

The  Right  must  Win Faber 216 

The  River  of  Life Camribell 114 

The  Rose T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  12 

The  Rose Waller 628 

The  Rose  of  Jericho Seaver 482 

The  Sailor's  Wife Mickle 372 

The  Sandpiper Thaater 591 

The  Sea B.  W.  Procter     ...  444 

The  Sea-limits D.  G.  Rosseiti     .     .     .  407 

The  Seasons Bennett 37 

The  Seed  Growing  Secretly Vaughiin 621 

The  Selfish " Rogers 401 

The  Shadow Preston 435 

The  Ship  Becalmed S.  T.  Coleridge   .     .     .  135 

The  Shipwreck Wilson 657 

The  Shower Vaughan 624 

The  Sight  of  Angels J.  J.  Piatt 41S 

The  Silent  Lover Raleigh 452 

The  Skylark Hogg 271 

The  Sleep E.  B.  Browning      .     .  60 

The  Snake ' Trench 605 

The  Solace  of  Nature Wordsworth   ....  666 

The  Soldanella Clark 12S 

The  Song  of  the  Camp B.  Taylor 568 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt //""'/ 281 

The  Soul Dana 182 

The  Soul's  Farewell Gould 288 

The  Soul's  Progress  Checked Cowper 161 

The  Source  of  Man's  lluling  Passion Tupper 616 

The  Sower Gilder 231 

The  Speed  of  Hapiiv  Hours Spencer 524 

The  Spring-time  wiil  Koturn Sargent 470 

The  Squire's  Pew Taylor 572 

The  Stanza  added  to  Wallti's  "  Rose" H.  K.  White    ....  636 

The  Stars M.  M.  Dodge  ....  192 

The  Star-Spangled  Uanner Key 318 

The  State  of  the  World  had  Men  Lived  at  Ease Thomson 596 

The  Sting  of  Death Hayne 257 

The  Sunrise  never  Failed  us  yet Thaxter 587 

The  Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw'Hill ?fo« 480 

The  Sweet  Neglect fonson 310 

The  Teacher Crabbe 164 

The  Tears  of  Heaven Tcnni/son 585 

The  Tempest Tliowxon 591 

The  Terror  of  Death AV'/i'v 310 

The  Test '^tedman 535 

The  Three  Fishers .     Kingsley 821 


CONTENTS. 


XXI 


The  Three  Lights  .... 

The  Tides 

The  Tiger ' 

The  Tiger 

The'Touchstone  .... 
The  True  Measure  of  Life 

The  Tryst 

The  Two  Angels  .... 
The  Two  Birds  .  .  .  .' 
The  Two  Brides  .... 
The  Twofold  Power  of  All  Thing 
The  Two  Great  Cities  .  . 
The  Two  Kisses  .... 
The  Two  Ladders  .... 
The  Two  Streams .  .  .  . 
The  Type  of  Struggling  Humanity 
The  Tyranny  of  Mood  .  . 
The  Undiscovered  Country 
The  Unexpressed  .... 
The  Universal  Lot  .  .  . 
The  Universal  Prayer  .  . 
The  Vacillating  Purpose     . 

The  Voiceless 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass  .  . 
The  Voices  of  Angels  .  . 
The  Village  Preacher  .  . 
The  Village  Schoolmaster  . 

The  Violet 

The  Violet 

The  Way,  the  Trutli,  and  the  Life 
The  White  Flag     .... 

The  Will 

The  Winged  Worshippers  . 
The  Winter's  Evening  .  . 
The  Wise  Man  in  Darkness 
The  Wise  Man  in  Light 

The  Wit 

The  Woodland 

The  Wood-turtle  .... 
The  Word  of  Bane  and  Blessing 

The  World 

The  World 

The  World  a  Grave  .... 
The  World  is  too  much  with  u 
The  World's  Wanderers  .  . 
The  Worth  of  Fame  .... 
The  Worth  of  Hours      .     .     . 

Thev  are  all  gone 

They  come  !  the  Merry  Summer 
The  Yellow  of  the  Miser    . 
The  Zeal  of  Persecution 
This  Name  of  Mine   ... 
Thou  art.  O  God    .... 
Those  Evening  Bells      .     . 

Thought  

Thou  hast  Sworn  by  thy  God 
Thou  Knowest      .... 
Three  Epitaphs      .... 
Three  Friends  of  Mine  .     . 

Three  Kisses 

Three  Kisses  of  Farewell   . 
Three  Sonnets  on  Prayer    . 
Through  Love  to  Light 
Thy  Art  be  Nature    .     .     . 

Tibbie  Inglis 

•Time 

Time,  its  I^se  and  Misuse  . 
To  a  Bavarian  Girl     .    .    • 


ths 


Whitney     . 
Longfellow  . 
Make      .     . 
Trench    .    . 
Allingham 
P.  J.  Bailey 
Sfedmnn 
Longfellow 
F.  Bates 
Stoddard    . 
a.  Souihey 
Hageman  . 
B.  Browning 
Tilton     .    . 
Holmes   .     . 
Holland .     . 
Preston  .     . 
Stedniaii 
Story  .     .     . 
Crahbe    .    . 
Pope  .     .     . 
Crabbe   .     . 
Holmes    .     . 
Poberi-i  .    . 
S.  T.  Coleridge 
Goldsmith, 
Goldsmith 
Scott  .    . 
Story  .     . 
Parker  . 
Winter    . 
Symonds 
Spragiie 
Coivper  . 
Prior 
Prior 
Drydeii  . 
I  I  ay  tie     . 
F<nnct'1t  . 
Tup  per  . 
Very  .     . 


Quarles  .     . 

E.  Young  . 
Wordsworth 
Shelley  .  . 
Baillie  .  . 
Lord  Houghto 
Vaughaii  . 
Motheripell 

F.  Smith     . 
Thomson     . 

G.  Houghton, 
Moore  .  . 
Moore  .  . 
Or  (inch  .  . 
Cunningham 
J.  C.  R.  Dorr 
Herrick  .  . 
Longfellow . 

E.  B.  Browning 
Saxe  Holm  . 
Trench  .  . 
Gilder  .  . 
Wordsworth 
Mary  Howitt 
Shellei/  .  .  . 
E.  Yonn/i  . 
B.  Taylor   . 


xxn  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  a  Child  Embracing  his  Mother Hood 280 

To  a  City  Pigeon Willis 650 

To  a  Distant  Friend .  Wordsirorth    ...     .  672 

To  a  Friend  in  Heaven Tennyson 576 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy Burns 83 

To  an  Early  Primrose ff.  IC.  While     .     .     .     .  C34 

To  an  Infant  Sleeping Holland 274 

To  any  Poet T.  B.  Aldrich      ...  12 

To  a  Sea-Bird Bret  Harte 252 

To  a  Skylark Shelley 490 

To  a  Skylark Wordsicorth    ....  673 

To  a  Violin Thaxter 588 

To  a  Virtuous  Young  Lady Milton 3S0 

To  a  Young  Lady Wofdsworth    ....  671 

To  Be,  or  Not  to  Be Shakefspeare  ....  484 

To  Celia Jonson. 509 

To  Critics Crabbe 168 

To-day Carlyle 118 

To-day S.  3f.  B.  Picrii  ....  419 

To-day Prescott 484 

To  England       Boker 46 

To  Flush,  my  Dog E.  B.  Browning  ...  62 

To  Freedom Barlow 29 

To  Giulia  Grisi Willis 658 

To  his  Books : Vaughan 626 

To  his  Mother's  Spindle Bloomjield 42 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent Her  rick 267 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  beyond  the  Seas Lovelace 346 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars Lovelace 346 

To  Man Covrper 162 

To  Mary Wolfe 664 

To  Mary  iu  Heaven Burns 82 

To  Misfortune H.  K.  While.     ....  636 

To  Moscow E.  D.  Proctor      ...  449 

To  Murmurers Tnpper 619 

To  my  Candle Wolc.oi 664 

To  my  Cigar Sprague 533 

To  my  Love Saxe 476 

To  my  Mother Poe 425 

To  my  Son Q.  P.  Lathrop      ...  884 

To  my  Soul Shakespeare  ....  489 

To  Night B.  mute 634 

Too  Late A.  A.  Procter      ...  441 

Too  Late Craik 172 

Too  Late Stedman 587 

To  Perilla Llerrick 265 

To  House,  the  Artist Appleton 19 

To  Sappho A.  Fields 228 

To  Seneca  Lake Percival 413 

To  Sleep Wordsworth    ....  672 

To  the  Cuckoo Wordsworth    ....  67B 

To  the  Fire R.Southey 522 

To  the  Mocking  Bird R.  H.  Wilde     ....  649 

To  the  Rainbow Campbell 118 

To  Time Bowles 61 

To  Victoria O.  F.  Bates 81 

To  William  Llnyd  Garrison Appleton 19 

Trailing  Arbutus R.  T.  Cooke      ....  152 

Treasure  in  Heaven Saxe    .     : 476 

Tribute  to  Victoria Campbell 115 

Ti-nimph Sinims 504 

Tropical  Weather ~.     .     .     .     Sargent 471 

T-ouble  to  Lend Kind,all 319 

True  Death Hood 284 

True  Nobility L'ope 481 

True  Union Rogers 462 

Truth  to  Nature Pope 482 

Turn  to  the  Helper Miller 873 


CONTJENTS. 


.  xxui 


PAliE 

Tuilifjht Wonlsworth    .    .    .    .  672 

Two  Love  Quatrains Gilder 232 

Two  Maidens Webi,t6r  .....  631 

Two  Patrons J.J.  Piatt 41S 

Tying  her  Bonnet  under  lier  Chin Perry 415 


u. 


Una  and  the  Lion E.  Spenser 526 

Under  the  Leaves LaiglUon 324 

Under  the  Portrait  of  .John  Milton Drijden 204 

Under  the  Sod Tilton     .     .     .     i     .     .'  599 

Under  the  \'iolets Ilulmen 2T8 

Undeveloped  Genius Wordsworth 668 

Unhappy  tniildhood Sijnms 503 

Union  of  Faith  and  lleason  Necessary Crahbe 169 

Universal  Salvation J.  G.  Wkiitier    ..."  645 

Unknown  Greatness Sir  H.  Taylor      ...  569 

Unrequiting F.  Smith 509 

Unseen  Spirits Willis 653 


Unspoken  Words 0'  Re  illy      .     . 

Unsung T.  B.  Aldrieh 

Until  Death Allen  .     .     .     . 

Unwedded Larcom  .     .     . 

Up-hill C.  G.  Rossetti 

Urvasi 


.  401 

.  10 

.  16 

.  330 

.  464 

Bostwiak 49 


Valborg  Watching  A.vel's  Departure G.  IJoughton 

Victory  from  God       Spenser  .     . 

Virtue Herbert  .     . 

Virtue,  The  Measure  of  Years E.    Young  . 

Virtue,  the  sole  Unfailing  Happiness Pope  .    .    . 


284 
528 
265 
683 
431 


w. 


Waiting .  Clemmer    . 

Waiting  for  the  Ship Brownell     . 

Wandering  Willie Scott   .    .     . 

Waterloo Byron     .     . 

Weak  Consolation Trench   .    . 

Weal  and  Woe  .  _ Gilder    .     . 

We  are  Seven Wordstcorth 

Weariness     . Longfellow 

We  Have  Been  Friends  Together Norton    .     . 

Weighing  the  Baby Beers      .     . 

We  Sat  by  the  Cheerless  Fireside Stoddard.    . 

Westminster  Bridge Wordsworth 

Wetmore  Cottage,  Nahant Stori/  .     .     . 

What  .\ils  this  Heart  o'  Mine  ? Bliiinire      . 

What  Is  the  Little  One  Thinking  about  ? Hollavd  .     . 

What  I  would  Be Tennyson    . 

What  Makes  a  Hero  ? Sir  IT.  Taylor 

What  Need  ? J.  C.  R.  liorr 

What  She  Thought T.  C.  R.  Dorr 

What  We  Toil  For Driininmnd 

What  will  it  Matter  ? IhiUand      . 

What  would  1  Save  Thee  from Gilder    .     . 

When  Coldness  Wraps  this  Suffering  Clay Byron     .     . 

When  Joys  are  Keenest .' Sir  II.  Taylo> 

When  the  Drum  of  Sickness  Beats Stoddard    . 


131 

60 
480 
106 
603 
231 
673 
342 
398 

86 
542 
675 
543 

40 
272 
579 
571 
194 
193 
198 
275 
232 

92 
571 
541 


XXIV  CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

Where  is  Thy  Favored  Haunt? Keble 314 

Where  the  lioses  Grew Allen 16 

Whilst  Thee  1  Seek WUliams 650 

White  Underneath H.  S.  Pulfiei/ .     ...  405 

Why? Cranch 1T6 

Why  should  we  Faint  and  Fear  to  Live  Alone  ? Keble 315 

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover  y Suckling 550 

Why  thus  Longing? Sewall 483 

Wile  to  Husband C.  G.  Bossetii     ...  466 

Wind  and  Sea B.  Taylor 565 

Windijss  Rain Hayne 257 

Wisdom E.  Young 684 

Wisdom's  Prayer Johnson 808 

Wishes  for  Obscurity Crowne 179 

Wit Pope 432 

Withered  Roses Whiter 660 

Woodbines  in  October C.  F.  Bates     ....  31 

Woodman,  Sjiare  that  Tree Morris 388 

Words  for  Parting Clement 129 

W^ork  and  Worship W.  A.  Butler.     ...  87 

W^orship Biehardson    ....  4.5S 

Worth  and  Cost Holland 273 

Wouldn't  you  Like  to  Know  ? Saixe 475 

W^juld  Wisdom  for  Herself  be  Wooed  ? Patmore 411 

Wounds P\iirceti 220 

Wrecked  in  the  Tempest Falconer 217 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley Shenstone 498 

Written  on  Sunday  Morning R.  Southey 519 


Te  Mariners  of  England Campbell    ....  110 

Yield  not,  thou  Sad  One,  to  Sighs Lover 848 

Young  Sophocles  taking  the  Prize A.  Fields 223 

Youth  and  Age S.  T.  Coleridge  .    .    .  140 

Xouth's  Agitations .    .    .  M.  Arnold 24 


Henry   Abbey. 


THE  CALIPH'S  MAGNANIMITY. 

A    TRAVELLER    across    the    desert 
waste 
Found  on  his  way  a  cool,  palm- 
shaded  spring, 

And  the  fresh  water  seemed  to  his 
pleased  taste. 
In  the  known  world,  the  most  de- 
licious thing. 

"  Great  is  the  caliph!"  said  he;  "I 
for  him 

Will  fill  my  leathern  bottle  to  the 
brim." 

He  sank  the  bottle,  forcing  it  to  drink 
Until  the  gurgle  ceased  in  its  lank 

throat ; 
And  as  he  started  onward,  smiled  to 

think 
That  he  for  thirst  bore  God's  sole 

antidote. 
Days  after,  with  obeisance  low  and 

meet. 
He  laid  his  present  at  the  caliph' s  feet. 

Forthwith  the  issue  of  the  spring  was 
poured 
Into  a  cup,   on  whose   embossed 
outside, 
Jewels,   like  solid   water,   shaped   a 
gouril. 
The  caliph  drank,  and  seemed  well 
satisfied, 
Nay,  wisely  pleased,  and  straightway 

•  gave  connnand 
To  line  with  gold  the  man's  work- 
hardened  hand. 

riie  courtiers,  looking  at  the  round 
reward. 
Fancied  that  some  unheard-of  vir- 
tue graced 


The  bottled  burden  borne  for  their 

loved  lord. 
Anil  of  the  liquid  gift  asked  but  to 

taste. 
The  caliph  answered  from  his  potent 

throne : 
'•  Touch  not  the  water;   it   is  mine 

alone!" 

But   soon  —  after  the  humble  giver 

went. 
O'erflowing    Avith    delight,    which 

bathed  his  face  — 
The    caliph   told    his    courtiers    the 

intent 
Of  his  denial,  saying:   "  It  is  base 
Not  to  accept  a  kindness  when  ex- 

]»ressed 
By  no  low  motive  of  self-interest. 

"  The  water  was  a  gift  of  love  to  me, 
Which  I  with  golden  gratitude  re- 
paid. 

I  would  not  let  the  honest  givei-  see 
That,  on  its  way,  the  crystal  of  the 
shade 

Had  changed,  and  was  impure;  for 
so,  no  less. 

His  love,  thus  scorned,  had  turned  to 
bitterness. 

'•  I  granted  not  the  warm,  distasteful 
draught 
To  asking  lips,  because  of  firm  mis- 
trust. 

Or    kindly    fear,    that,    if     another 
quatfed. 
He  would  reveal  his  feeling  of  dis- 
gust. 

And  he,  who  meant  a  favor,  would 
depart, 

Bearing    a    wounded    and    dejected 
heart." 


ABBEY 


MAY   IN   KINGSTON. 

Our  old  colonial  tcwii  is  new  with 

May: 
The  loving  trees  that  clasp  across 

the  streets, 
Grow  greener  sleeved  with  bursting 

buds  each  day. 
Still  this  year's  May  the  last  year's 

May  repeats; 
Even  the  old  stone  houses  half  renew 
Their  youth  and  beauty,  as  the  old 

trees  do. 

High  over  all,  like  some  divine  de- 
sire 
Above  our  lov.'er  thoughts  of  daily 
care. 

The  gray,  religious,  heaven-touching 
spire 
Adds  to  the  quiet  of  the  spring- 
time air; 

And  over  roofs  the  birds  create  a  sea. 

That  lias   no   shore,   of    their    May 
melody. 

Down  through  the  lowlands  now  of 
lightest  green, 
Tlie  undecided  creek  winds  on  its 
way. 

There  the  lithe  willow   bends  with 
graceful  mien. 
And  sees  its  likeness  in  the  depths 
all  day; 

While  in  the  orchards,  lluslied  with 
May's  warm  light. 

The  bride-lilvc  fruit-trees  dwell,   at- 
tired in  white. 

But  yonder  loom  the  mountains  old 
and  grand. 
That  off,  along  dim  distance,  i-(»ach 
afar. 

And  high  and  vast,  against  the  sun- 
set stand, 
A  dreamy  range,  long  and  irreg- 
ular— 

A  caravan  that  never  passes  by, 

Whose  camel-backs   are   laden  with 
the  sky. 

So,  like  a,  caravan,  our  outlived  years 
Loom   on   tiie   introspective  land- 
scape seen 


Within   the  heart:   and  now,   when 

.May  appears, 
.\ud  earth  renews  its  vernal  bloom 

and  green, 
We  but  renew  our  longing,  and  we 

say: 
"Oil,  would  that  life  might  ever  be 

all  May! 

' '  Would  that  the  bloom  of    youth 

which  is  so  brief. 
The  bloom,  tlie  May,  the  fullness 

ripe  and  fair 
Of  cheek  and  limb,  might  fade  not 

as  the  leaf; 
W^ould  that  the   heart   might  not 

grow  old  witli  care, 
Nor  love  turn  bitter,  nor  fond  hope 

decay ; 
But  soul  and    body  lead  a  life    of 

May!" 


FACIE  BAT. 

As  tlioughts  possess  the  fashion  of 

the  mood 
That  gave  them    birth,   so    eveiy 

deed  we  do 
Partakes  of  our  inborn  disquietude 
Which  spurns  the  old  and  reaches 

toward  the  new. 
The  noblest  works  of  human  art  and 

pride 
Show   that   their   maliers   were    not 

satisfied. 


For,  looking  down  the  ladder  of  our 

deeds, 
The  rounds  seem  slender;  all  past 

work  ai)p(!ars 
Unto    the    doer    faulty;    the  -heart 

bleeds. 
And  ])ale  Regret  comes  weltering 

in  tears, 
To  think  how  poor  our  best  has  been, 

how  vain. 
Beside  the  excellence  we  would  at/ 

tain. 


ADAMS  —  ADDISON. 


Sarah    Flower   Adams. 


NEARER,  Afy  GOD,   TO   THEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee : 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raisetli  me, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 

Though  like  a  wanderer. 

Daylight  all  gone, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone. 
Yet  in  my  dreams,  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
•     Nearer  to  thee. 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  up  to  heaven ; 


All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given. 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  .God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts. 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs, 
Bethel  I'll  raise; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee. 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing, 

Cleaving  the  sky. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot 

Upward  I  fly. 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 


Joseph   Addison. 


APOSTROPHE    TO   LIBERTY. 


O  Liberty,  thou  goddess  heavenly 
bright. 

Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with 
delight! 

Eternal    pleasures    in    thy   presence 
reign. 

And  smiling  plenty  leads  thy  wanton 
train; 

Eased  of  her  load,  subjection  grows 
more  light, 

And   poverty  looks   cheerful  in  thy 
sight; 

Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  na- 
ture gay, 

Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleas- 
ure to  the  day. 
Thee,    goddess,    thee,   Britannia's 
isle  adores; 

How  has  she  oft  exhausted  all  her 
stores. 


How  oft  in  fields  of  death  thy  pres- 
ence sought, 
Nor    thinks    the    mighty  prize    too 

dearly  bought! 
On  foreign  mountains  may  the  sim 

refine 
The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it 

to  wine ; 
With  citron  groves  adorn  a  distant 

soil, 
And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  floods  of 

oil: 
We  envy  not  the  wanner  clime,  that 

lies 
In   ten   degrees   of    more    indulgent 

skies ; 
Nor  at  the  coarseness  of  oiu*  heaven 

repine, 
Though   o'er  our  heads   the  frozen 

Pleiads  shine: 
'Tis  liberty  that  crowns  Britannia's 

isle. 
And  makes  her  barren  rocks  and  h'^' 

bleak  mountains  smile. 


ARE  N  SIDE. 


CATO'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Zt  must  be  so  —  Plato,  thou  reason' st 

well!  — 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this 

fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  in- 
ward horror, 
Of  falling  into  nought '?  why  shrinks 

the  soul 
Back    on    herself,    and    startles    at 

destruction? 
'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us; 
'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an 

hereafter. 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 
Eternity!    thou    pleasing,     dreadful 

thought ! 
Through    what    variety    of    untried 

being. 
Through    what     new     scenes    and 

changes  must  we  pass  ? 
The   wide,   th'    mibounded   prospect 

lies  before  me; 
But  shadows,   clouds,  and  darkness 

rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  power 

above  us  — 
And   that  there  is,  all   nature  cries 

aloud 
Through    all    liei-  works  —  he  must 

delight  in  virtue; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must 

be  happy. 
But  when  ?   or  where  ?    This  world 

was  made  for  Csesar. 
I'm    weary    of    conjectures.       This 

must  end  them. 
[Lay'uKj  hla  hand  on  his  sivord.] 


Thus  am  1  doubly  armed :  my  dcalh 

and  life. 
My    bane    and    antidote,    are    both 

before  me: 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an 

end ; 
But  this  informs   me  1  shall   iiever 

die. 
The  sold,  secur'ed  in  her  existence, 

smiles 
At,  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its 

point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun 

himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  natm-e  sink 

in  years; 
But  thou  slialt  flourish  in  immortal 

youth. 
Unhurt    amidst    the    wars    of    ele- 
ments. 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush 

of  '.worlds. 
What    means    this    heaviness    that 

hangs  upon  me? 
This  lethargy  that  creeps  through  all 

my  senses  ? 
Nature  oppressed,  and   harassed  out 

with  care. 
Sinks  down  to  rest.     This  once  Til 

favor  her. 
That  my  awakened   soul   may  tak( 

her  flight, 
Renewed   in   all    her    strength,   and 

fresh  with  life. 
An  offering  fit  for  heaven.     Let  guilt 

or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest:  Cato  knows  nei- 
ther of  them; 
Indiffei'ent  in  his  choice  to  sleep  or 

die. 


Mark  Akenside. 


ON  A  SERMON  AGAINST  GLORY. 

CoMK  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine, 

Is  it  an  offence  to  own 
That  our  bosoms  e'er  incline 

Toward  immortal  Glory's  throne? 


For  with  me  nor  pomp,  nor  pleasure, 
Bourbon' s  might,  Braganza'  s  treasure, 
So  can  fancy's  dream  rejoice. 
So  conciliate  reason's  choice. 
As  one  approving  word  of  her  irapar 
tial  voice. 


AKENHIDE. 


If  to  spiu'ii  at  noble  praise 

Be  the  passport  to  thy  heaven, 
Follow  thou  tliose  gloomy  ways  — 

No  such  law  to  me  was  given ; 
Nor^  1  trust,  shall  I  deplore  me, 
Faring  like  my  friyids  before  me; 
Nor  an  holier  place  desire 
Than  Timoleon's  arms  acquire, 
And  Tully's  curule  chair,  and  Mil- 
ton's golden  lyre. 


[From  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination. '\ 

THE    DEVELOPMENT    OF   POETIC 
AND    AJiTISTIC  CREATIONS. 

By  these  mysterious  ties,  the  busy 

power 
Of  memory  her  ideal  train  preserves 
Entire:   or  when  they   would  elude 

her  watch, 
Reclaims     their     fleeting     footsteps 

from  the  waste 
Of  dark  oblivion  ;  thus  collecting  all 
The  various  forms  of  being,  to  present 
Before  tiie  curious  eye  of  mimic  art 
Their   largest  choice:   like   Spring's 

unfolded  blooiiis 
Exhaling  sweetness,  that,  ■'.be  skilful 

bee 
May  taste  at  will  from  their  selected 

spoils 
To  work  her  dulcet  food.     For  not 

the  expanse 
Of  living  lakes  in  summer's  noontide 

calm, 
Keflects  the  bordering  shade  and  sun- 
bright  heavens 
With    fairer    semblance;     not    the 

sculptured  gold 
More    faithful    keeps    the    graver's 

lively  trace. 
Than    he    whose    birth   the    sister- 
powers  of  art 
Propitious    viewed,    and    from    his 

genial  star 
Shed  influence  to  the  seeds  of  fancy 

kind. 
Than  his  attempered    bosom    must 

preserve 
The  seal   of    nature.     There  alone, 

unchanged 


Her  form  remains.    The  balmy  walks 

of  May 
Tliere  breathe  perennial  sweets:  the 

trembling  chord 
Kesomids   forever  in  the  abstracted 

ear. 
Melodious;  and  tlie  virgin's  radiant 

eye, 
Superior  to  disease,  to  grief,  and  time, 
Shines  with  unbating  lustre.     Thus 

at  length 
Endowed  wilh   all   that  nature  can 

bestow. 
The   child   of    fancy   oft    in  silence 

bends 
O'er  these  mixed   treasures    of    his 

pregnant  l^reast 
With  conscious   pride.     From  them 

he  oft  resuives 
To  frame  he  knows  not  what  excel- 
ling things. 
And  win  he  knows  not  what  sublime 

leward 
Of  praise  and  wonder.     By  degrees 

the  mind 
Feels  her  young  nei"ves  dilate:   the 

plastic  powers 
Labor    for    action:    blind    emotions 

lieave 
His  bosom ;  and  with  loveliest  frenzy 

caught. 
From  earth  to  heaven  he   rolls  his 

daring  eye. 
From  heaven   to  earth.     Anon   ten 

tliousand  shapes. 
Like  spectres  trooping  to  the  wiz- 
ard's call, 
Flit  SMift  before   him.      From    the 

womb  of  earth. 
From   ocean's  bed   they  come:    the 

eternal  heavens 
Disclose    their    splendors,    and    thf 

dark  abyss 
Pours     out     her     births    unknowi 

With  fixed  gaze 
He  marks  the  rising  phantoms.  Nov 

compares 
Their  different  fonns;   now  blends 

them,  now  divides; 
Enlarges  and  extenuates  by  turns; 
Opposes,  ranges  in  fantastic  bands. 
And  infinitely  varies.     Mil  her  now. 
Now  thither  fluctuates  his  inconstant 

aim, 


6 


AKENSIDE. 


WitL  endless  choice  perplexed.  At 
length  his  plan 

jiegins  to  ojjen.     Lucid  order  dawns ; 

And  as  from  Chaos  old  the  jarring 
seeds 

Of  nature  at  the  voice  divine  repaired 

Each  to  its  place,  till  rosy  earth  un- 
veiled 

Her  fragrant  bosom,  and  the  joyful 
sun 

Sprung  up  the  blue  serene ;  by  swift 
degrees 

Thus  disentangled,  his  entire  design 

Emerges.  Colors  mingle,  features 
join, 

And  lines  converge :  the  fainter  parts 
retire; 

The  fairer  eminent  in  light  advance  ; 

And  every  image  on  its  neighbor 
smiles. 

Awhile  he  stands,  and  with  a  father's 
joy 

Contemplates.  Then  with  Prome- 
thean art 

Into  its  proper  vehicle  he  breathes 

The  fair  conception  which,  embodied 
thus. 

And  permanent,  becomes  to  eyes  or 
ears 

An  object  ascertained:  while  thus 
infoi'med. 

The  various  objects  of  his  mimic 
skill. 

The  consonance  of  sounds,  the  feat- 
ured rock, 

The  shadowy  picture,  and  impas- 
sioned verse, 

Beyond  t^  eir  proper  powers  attract 
the  soul 

By  that  expressive  semblance,  while 
in  sight 

Of  nature's  great  original  we  scan 

The  lively  child  of  art;  while  line  by 
line. 

And  feature  after  feature,  we  refer 

To  that  divine  exemplar  whence  it 
stole 

Those  animating  charms.  Thus 
beauty's  palm 

Betwixt  them  wavering  hangs:  ap- 
plauding love 

Doubts  where  to  choose;  and  mortal 
man  aspires 

To  tempt  creative  praise. 


[From  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,'] 
RICHES   OF  A   MAN  OF   TASTE. 

What  though  not  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain   the 

heights 
Of  envied  life;  though  only  few  pos- 
sess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state; 
Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children 

just. 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler 

state. 
Endows,  at  large,  whatever  happy  man 
Will   deign   to  use   them.     His  the 

city's  pomp. 
The    rural    honors    his. .    Whate'er 

adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and 

the  arch. 
The     breathing     marbles    and    the 

sculptured  gold. 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow 

claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him, 

■  the  Spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken 

gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds:  for  him,  the 

iiand 
Of     Autumn     tinges    every    fertile 

luanch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like 

th(>  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from 

lier  v,'ings; 
And    still    new    beauties    meet    bis 

lonely  walk. 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a 

breeze 
Flics  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud 

imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a 

strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling 

shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can 

partake 
Fresh    pleasure    unreproved.       Nor 

I  hence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasure  only:  forth'  attentiv( 

mind, 
By  11  lis  harmonious   action   on   her 

powers, 


AKENSIDE. 


Becomes  herself  harmonious:  wont 
so  oft 

In  outward  things  to  meditate  tlie 
charm 

Of  sdcred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at 
home 

To  find  a  kindred  order  to  exert 

Within  lierself  tliis  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspired  delight:  her  tem- 
per'd  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion 
wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive 
mien. 


iFrom  Pleasures  of  the  Imagmntion.'] 
MENTAL   BEAUTY. 

Thus  doth  beauty  dwell 

There  most  conspicuous,  e'en  in  out- 
ward shape, 

Where  dawns  the  liigh  expression  of 
a  mind : 

By  steps  conducting  our  enraptured 
search 

To  that  eternal  origin,  whose  power. 

Through  all  th'  unbounded  synnne- 
try  of  things, 

Like  rays  effulging  from  the  parent 
Sim, 

This  endless  mixtiu-e  of  her  charms 
diffused. 

Mind,  mind  alone,  —  bear  witness, 
earth  and  heaven!  — 

The  living  fountains  in  itself  con- 
tains 

Of  beauteous  and  sublime :  here,  hand 
in  hand. 

Sit  paramoimt  the  graces;  here  en- 
throned. 

Celestial  Venus,  with  divlnest  airs, 

Invites  the  soul  to  never-fading  joy. 


[From  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination.'] 

ASPIRATIONS  AFTER    THE   INFI- 
NITE. 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently 

raised 
Amid  the  vast  creation;  why  ordain'd 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his 

piercing  eye, 


With  thoughts  beyond  the  limit  of 

his  frame; 
But  that  th'  Omnipotent  might  send 

him  forth 
In    sight    of    mortal   and    immortal 

powers. 
As  on  a  boundless  theatre,  to  run 
The  great  career  of  justice;  to  exalt 
His  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds  ; 
To  chase  each  partial  purpose  from 

his  breast. 
And  through  the  mists  of  passion  and 

of  sense. 
And    through    the    tossing    tide    of 

chance  and  pain. 
To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while 

the  voice 
Of  truth   and   virtue,   up   the  steep 

ascent 
Of  nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  re- 
ward, 
Th'    applauding    smile    of    heaven? 

Else  wherefore  burns 
In   mortal   bosoms  this  unquenched 

hope, 
That  breathes  from  day  to  day  sub- 

limer  things, 
And    mocks    possession?    wherefore 

darts  the  mind. 
With  such  resistless  ardor,  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms;  impatient  to  be  free; 
Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful 

might; 
Proud   of  the  strong  contention  of 

her  toils; 
Proud  to  be  daring  ? 

For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker 

said, 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  de- 
light, 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  renown, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's 

flowery  lap, 
The  soul  should  find  enjoyment :  but 

from  these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good. 
Through  all  th'  ascent  of  things  en- 
large her  view. 
Till  every  bound  at  length   should 

disappear, 
And    infinite    perfection    close    tii« 
scene. 


AKERMAN—  ALDEICH. 


Lucy   Evelina  Akerman. 


NOTHING   BUT  LEAVES. 

"He  fouud  nothing  thereon  but  leaves."' 
Matt.  xxi.  19. 

Nothing    but    leaves;     the     spirit 
grieves 
Over  the  wasted  life: 
Sin  (committed  while  conscience  slept, 
Promises  made  but  never  kept, 
Hatred,  battle,  strife; 
Nothing  but  leaves ! 

Nothing    but    leaves;    no    garner'd 

sheaves 
Of  life's  fair,  ripen'd  grain; 
iVords,  idle  words,  for  earnest  deeds ; 
tVe  sow   our   seeds  —  lo!    tares   and 

weeds ; 


We  reap  with  toil  and  pain 
Nothing  but  leaves ! 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  memory  weaves 

No  veil  to  screen  the  past  : 
As  we  retrace  our  weary  way, 
Coimting    each    lost    and    misspen* 
day  — 
We  find,  sadly,  at  last, 
Nothing  but  leaves! 

And  shall  M'e  meet  the  Master  so, 

Bearing  our  wither' d  leaves  ? 
The  Saviour  looks  for  perfect  fruit, — 
We     stand     before     him,    humbled, 
mute ; 
Waiting  tlie  words  he  breathes,— 
"  Nothing  but  leases!" 


James  Aldrich. 


A  DEATH-BED. 


Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close. 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night 
away. 

In  statue-like  repose. 


But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 
Illumed  the  eastern  skies. 

She  passed  through  Glory's  morning 
gate, 
And  walked  in  Paradise ! 


Thomas   Bailey  Aldrich. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  BABIE  BELL 

Havp:  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  Avorld  of  ours? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 
With  folded  hands  and  iireamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  jdanel,  lilce  a  star, 

Iltmg  in  the  glistening  depths  of 
even, — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels 
go. 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 


She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers, 
those  feet 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels ! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers. 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet' 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  oiu's. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May, 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the 

eaves ; 
Like    sunlight    in    and   out  th« 
leavers, 
The  robins  went  tl:e  livelong  day; 


ALDRICH. 


9 


The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling 

vine 
Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of 
wine. 

How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell! 

O,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 

And  opening  spring-tide  flowers. 

When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Came  to  this  \\orld  of  ours ! 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 
What  woman-nature  tilled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay: 
Those    deep    and   tender    twilight 
eyes. 
So  full  of    meaning,    pure    and 

bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise, 
^nd  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more ; 
Ah,  never  in  om-  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born. 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen,  — 

The  land  beyond  the  moi'U. 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes. 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise, )  — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  om-  lives. 
And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and 
pain. 
We  said.  Dear  Christ!  — Our  heart* 
bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were 

white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she 

came, 
Were     rich     in     autumn's     mellow 

prime :  , 

The    clustered    apples    burnt   like 

flame, 
The    soft-cheeked    peaches    blushed 

and  fell, 
The  ivoiy  chestnut  burst  its  shell. 
The  grapes    hung  purpling    in   the 

grange : 
And  time   wrought    just  as  rich    a 

change 

In  little  Babie  BeM. 


Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And   in   her  features  we    could 

trace. 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's 
face! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 
We    thought    her    lovely  when    she 
came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now; 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame! 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal, 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning    lay   beyond    our 
reach. 
She  never  was  a  cliild  to  us, 
"\V^e  never  held  her  being's  key; 
If'e  could  not  teach  her  holy  things: 
She  was  Clirist's  self  in  purity. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees: 

We  saw  its  shadow  ereit  fell, 

I'he  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We    shuddered    with     unlanguaged 

pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changes  Ko 

fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
Yv'e  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God' 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  tlie  ioc" 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah,  liow  we  loved  lier,  God  can  te"- 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  liearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger. 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands 
And  v>  hat  did  dainty  Babie  Bell '? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands. 
She    onlv    looked    more    meek    and 

fafr! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair" 
We  wove  the  roses  round  lier  brow, 
White  buds,   tlie    summer's   drifteil 

snow,  — 
Wrapt  lier  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ers! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours! 


lU 


ALDBICH. 


DESTINY. 

Three  roses,  wan  as  moonlight  and 

weighed  down 
Each  with  its  lovehness  as  with  a 

crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a 

town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at 

rest. 
Like  flower  on  dr  wc:",  that  night,  on 
Beauty's  breast. 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Slirimli  in  tlie  tangles  of  a  harlot's 
hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief 

made  wild. 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead 

child. 


AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT. 

I  WONDER  what  day  of  the  week  — 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year  — 
Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier  ? 

—  What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait,  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 
iVhile  Lilian  gives  the  last  touch 
"o  her  robe,  or  the  rose  in  her  hair. 

Do  I  like  your  new  dress  —  pompa- 
dour? 

And  do  I  like  you  ?    On  my  life, 

You  are  eighteen,  and  not  a  day 
more, 

And  have  not  been  six  years  my  wife. 

Those  two  rosy  boys  in  the  crib 
Up  stairs  are  not  ours,  to  be  sure!  — 
Yow  art!  just   a  sweet   bride  in  her 

bloom. 
All  sunshine,  and  snowy,  and  pure. 

As  the  carriag(^  rolls  down  the  dark 

street 
The    little   wife    laughs   and   makes 

fiheer ; 


But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the 

week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year. 


NAMELESS   PAIN. 

In  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 
Blows  the  ex()uibite  scent  of  the  rosei 
O  for  the  golden,  golden  wind. 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes, 
Breaking  the  buds,  and  bending  the 

grass. 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose! 

0  wind  of  the  sunnncr  moiu, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 
Wafting  thti  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to- 

day. 
And  scatter  its  nameless  pain. 


UNSUNG. 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  white  rose, 
As  weird  as  the  ellin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights, 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air. 
Is  the  song  1  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 

I  have  said  the  mystic  rhymes, 

But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  flies; 

Of  the  interfluent  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains: 

I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 

And  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred 

By  an  unremembered  word ! 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain, 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay;  • 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
I  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  1  have  never  sung. 


ALDRICR 


11 


RENCONTRE. 

Toiling  across  the  Mer  de  Glace 

I  thought  of,  longed  for  thee ; 

What    uiiles    between  us    stretched, 

alas! 
What  miles  of  land  and  sea ! 

My  foe,  undreamed  of,  at  my  side 
Stood  suddenly,  like  Fate. 
For  those  who  love,  the  world  is  wide, 
But  not  for  those  who  hate. 


THE  FADED    VIOLET. 

What  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves ! 
What  tender  tliought,  what  speech- 
less pain ! 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain ! 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 
Though  scent  and  azure  tint  are  fled — 

0  dry,  mute  lips!  ye  are  the  type 
Of  something  in  me  cold  and  dead; 

Of  something  wilted  like  thy  leaves; 
Of  fragrance  flown,  of  beauty  dim; 
Yet,  for  the  love  of  those  white  hands, 
That  found  thee  by  a  river's  brim  — 

That    found    thee  when    thy    dewy 

mouth 
Was  purpled  as  with  stains  of  wine  — 
For  love  of  her  who  love  forgot, 

1  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 

That  thou  shouldst  live  when  I  am 

dead, 
V\'hen    hate    is  dead,   for    me,    and 

wrong, 
For  this,  I  use  my  subtlest  art. 
For  this,  I  fold  thee  in  my  song. 


AFTER    THE  RAIN. 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunsliine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 


From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely-carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye: 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disc,  a  speck: 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


PURSUIT  AND   POSSESSION. 

When  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pm 

suit. 
What  life,  what  glorious  eagerness 

it  is; 
Then  mark  how  full  Possession  falls 

from  this. 
How  fairer  seems  the  blossom  than 

the  fruit  — 
1   am   perplext,   and   often   stricken 

mute 
Wondering  which  attained  the  higher 

bliss. 
The  winged  insect,  or  the  chrysalis 
It  thrust  aside  with  unreluctant  foot. 
Spirit  of  verse  that  still  elud'st  my 

art. 
Thou  airy  phantom   that  dost  ever 

haunt  me, 
O  never,  never  rest  upon  my  heart, 
If  when  I  have  thee  I  shall  little  want 

thee ! 
Still  flit  away  in  moonlight,  rain,  and 

dew. 
Will-o'-the-wisp,    that    I    may    still 


pursue 


SLEEP. 

When  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves 
away. 

And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 

Drift  on  and  on  through  the  en- 
chanted dark 

To  purple  daybreak  — little  thought 
we  pay 

To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know 
by  day. 

We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 

So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  maj 
mark 


12 


ALDRICH—  ALEXANDER. 


The     thin     swift     pinion     clfavini^ 

through  the  gray. 
Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill 
The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up 

again 
The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make 

it  hleed; 
For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's 

voice  is  still, 
No  fainlCoL  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 
How  will   it  be  when  we  shall  sleep 

indeed '? 


Black  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  dis- 
guise 

And  shows  you  laughing  lips  and 
loguish  eyes; 

But  when,  unmasked,  gay  Comedy 
ai)pears, 

How  wan  her  clieeks  are,  and  what 
heavy  tears! 


THE  HOSE. 

Fixed  to  her  necklace,  like  another 

gem, 
A  ros(>  she  wore —  the  flower  June 

made  for  her: 


Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  thi' 

stem, 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much 

happier. 


MAPLE  LEAVES. 

October  tmiied  my  maple's  leaves  to 

gold; 
The   most  are  gone  now;    here  and 

there  one  lingers; 
■Soon    these   will    slip   from   out  the 

twigs'  weak  hold, 
Ijike  coins  between  a  dying  miser's 

tiagei's. 


TO  ANY  POET. 

Out  of  the  thousand  verses  you  have 

wi'it. 
If  Time  spare  none,  you  will  not  care 

at  all; 
If  Time  spare  one,  you  will  not  know 

of  it: 
Nor    shame    nor    fame  can  scale  a 

churchyard  wall. 


Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 


THE  BVniAL   OF  MOSES. 

"  And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the 
land  of  Moab,  over  against  Beth-peor;  but 
no  man  knowetb  of  his  sepulchre  unto 
this  day." 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave. 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

Then;  lies  a  lonely  grave. 
And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre, 

An<l  no  man  saw  it  ti'er. 
For  the  angels  of  (tOcI  upturned  the 
sod 

And  laid  llic  dead  man  there. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  pass'd  on  earth; 
But  no  man  lieard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  tlie  train  go  forth  — 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's 
cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun. 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
II(;r  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  theii'  thousand  leaves; 

So  without  sound  oi'  nnisic. 
Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 


ALFORD. 


13 


Silently  donn  from  the  mountain's 
crown 
The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 
On  grey  Beth-peor's  height, 

Out  of  liis  lonely  eyrie 
Look'd  on  the  wondrous  sight; 

Perchance  the  lion  stalking, 
Still  shuns  that  hallow'd  spot, 
or  beast  and  bird   have   seen   and 

heard 
That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

L>ut  v/hen  the  warrior  dleth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
IVith    arms    reversed     and     mulHed 
drum. 

Follow  his  funeral  car; 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 
And  after  him  lead  his   masterless 
steed. 

While  peals  the  minute  gmi. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest . 
And  give  the  bard  an  honor'd  place. 

With  costly  marble  drest. 
In  the  great  minster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet 
choir  sings 

Along  the  emblazon' d  wall. 

This  was  the  truest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword, 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 


And  never  earth's  philosopher 
Traced,  with  his  golden  pen. 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so 
sage 
As  he  wrote  down  for  men 

And  had  he  not  high  honor, — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall,  o 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

Witli  stars  for  tapers  ^all, 
And  the  dark  rock-pines  like  tossing 
plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely 
land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ? 

In    that    strange    grave    without    a 
name, 
Whence  his  uncoffin'd  clay 
Shall     break     again,     O     wondrous 
thought! 
Before  the  .Judgment  Day, 
And  stand  with  glory  wrapt  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And   speak  of  the  strife  tliat   won 
our  life 
With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  Cod. 

O  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these    curious    hearts    of 
ours. 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
(Tod  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace. 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hiddei 
sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 


Henry  Alford, 

THE  AGED   OAK  AT  OAKLEY. 


C  WAS  a  young  fair  tree; 
Each  spring  with  ([uivering  green 
My  boughs  were  clad    aisd  far 
Down  the  deep  vale  a  light 
Shone  from  me  on  tlie  eyes 
Df  those  who  pass'd, —  a  light 


Thau  told  of  sunny  days, 
And  blossoms,  and  blue  sky; 
P'or  I  was  ever  first 
Of  all  the  grove  to  hear 
The  soft  voice  under  ground 
Of  the  warm-working  spring; 
An?!  ere  my  brethren  stirr'd 
Their  sheatlied  bud,  Uie  kine, 


14 


ALLEN. 


And  the  kine's  keeper,  came 

And  scanty  leafage  serve 

Slow  up  the  valley  path, 

No  high  behest;  my  name 

And  laid  them  underneath 

Is  sounded  far  and  wide ; 

My  cool  and  rustling  leaves ; 

And  in  the  Providence 

And  I  could  feel  them  there 

That  guides  the  steps  of  men,, 

As  in  the  quiet  shade 

Hundreds  have  come  to  view 

They  stood  .vith  tender  thoughts, 

My  grandeur  in  decay ; 

That  pass'd  along  their  life 

And  there  hath  pass'd  from  me 

Like  wings  on  a  still  lake, 

A  quiet  influence 

Blessing  me ;  and  to  God, 

Into  the  minds  of  men: 

The  blessed  God,  who  cares 

The  silver  head  of  age, 

For  all  my  little  leaves, 

The  majesty  of  laws, 

Went  up  the  silent  praise; 

The  very  name  of  God, 

And  I  was  glad  with  joy 

And  holiest  things  that  are 

Which  life  of  laboring  things 

Have  won  upon  the  heart 

111  knows, —  the  joy  that  sinks  — 

Of  humankind  the  more, 

Into  a  life  of  rest. 

For  that  I  stand  to  meet 

Ages  have  fled  since  then : 

With  vast  and  bleaching  trunk, 

But  deem  not  my  pierced  trunk 

The  rudeness  of  the  sky. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


ENDURANCE. 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and 
yet  not  break ! 
How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer, 
and  not  die! 
I  question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache 
Of   soul  or  body  brings  our  end 
more  nigh ; 
Death  chooses  his  own  time ;  till  that 
is  sworn. 
All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  s'^rink  and  shudder  at  the  sur- 
£  ion's  knife, 
Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel 
steel 
Wliose  edge  seems  searching  for  the 
quivering  life, 
Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs 
reveal, 
That  still,   although    the  trembling 
flesh  be  torn. 
This  also  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way, 
And  try  to  flee  from  the  approach- 
ing ill ; 
W^e  seek  some  small  escape ;  we  weep 
and  pray; 


But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our 
hearts  are  still ; 
Not  that  the  jiain  is  of  its  sharpness 
shorn. 

But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life; 
We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our 
own : 
Anon  it  faints  and  fails  in  deathly 
strife, 
Leaving  us  stunned,  and  stricken, 
and  alone; 
But  ah !  we  do  not  die  with  those  we 
mourn,  — 

This  also  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things,  — 
famine,  thirst, 
Bereavement,  jjain;    all  grief  and 
misery, 
All  woe  and  sorrow;   life  inflicts  its 
worst 
On  soul  and  body,  —  but  we  cannot 
die. 
Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and 
faint  and  worn,  — 

Lo,  all  things  can  be  home! 


ALLEN. 


18 


WHERE    THE  ROSES  GREW. 

This  is  where  the  roses  grew, 
In  the  summer  that  is  gone ; 

Fairer  bloom  or  richer  line 
Never  siunmer  shone  upon : 

O,  the  glories  vanished  hence! 

O,  the  sad  imperfect  tense ! 

This  is  where  the  roses  grew 

When  the  July  days  were  long,  — 
When  the  garden  all  day  through 

"Echoed  with  delight  and  song;  — 
Hark!  the  dead  and  broken  stalks 
Eddying  down  the  windy  walks ! 

Never  was  a  desert  waste, 
Where  no  blossom-life  is  born, 

Half  so  dreary  and  unblest, 
Half  so  lonesome  and  forlorn, 

Since  in  this  we  dimly' see 

All  the  bliss  that  used  to  he. 

Where  the  roses  used  to  grow ! 

And  the  west-wind's  wailing  words 
Tell  in  whispers  faint  and  low 

Of  the  famished  humming-birds,  — 
Of  the  bees  which  search  in  vain 
For  the  honey-cells  again ! 

Tills  is  where  the  roses  grew, 
Till  the  ground  was  all  peifume. 

And,  whenever  zephyrs  blew. 
Carpeted  with  crimson  bloom ! 

Now  the  chill  and  scentless  air, 

Sweeps  the  flower-plats  brown   and 
bare. 

Hearts  have  gardens  sad  as  this. 
Where  the  roses  bloom  no  more,  — 

Gardens  where  no  summer  bliss 
Can  the  summer  bloom  restore,  — 

Where  the  snow  melts  not  away 

At  the  vvarming  kiss  of  May ;  — 

Gardens  where  the  vernal  morns 
Never  shed  their  sunshine  down,  — 

Where  are  only  stems  and  thorns. 
Veiled  in  dead  leaves,  curled  and 
brown,  — 

Gardens  where  we  only  see 

Where  the  roses  used  to  he  ' 


LAST. 

Friend,  whose  smile  has  come  to  be 

Very  precious  imto  me. 

Though  I  know  I  drank  not  first, 
Of  your  love's  bright  fountain- 
burst. 

Yet  I  grieve  no*^  for  the  past, 

So  you  only  love  me  last ! 

Other  souls  may  find  their  joy 
In  the  blind  love  of  a  boy: 

Give  me  that  which  years  hav( 
tried, 

Disciplined  and  purified,  — 
Such  as,  braving  sun  and  blast 
You  will  bring  to  me  at  last!  ' 

There  are  brows  more  fair  than  mine. 
Eyes  of  more  bewitching  shine, 
Other  hearts  more  fit,  in  trath. 
For  the  passion  of  yom-  youth; 
But,  their  transient  empire  past, 
You  will  surely  love  me  last! 

Wing  away  your  summer  time, 

Find  a  love  in  every  clime, 

Roam  in  liberty  and  light,  — 
I  shall  never  stay  your  flight,- 

For  I  know,  when  all  is  past. 

You  will  come  to  me  at  last! 

Change  and  fliitter  as  you  will, 

1  shall  smile  secm-ely  still; 
Patiently  I  tnist  and  wait 
Though  you  tarry  long  and  late 

Prize  your  spring  till  it  be  past, 

Only,  only  love  me  last! 


ROCK  ME   TO  SLEE? 

Bajkwakd,  turn  backward,  O  Time 

?3i  your  flight, 
Mak-  mc  a  child   again  just  for  lo 

night! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless 

shore. 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  ot 

yore ; 


16 


ALLEN. 


Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows 

of  cai'e, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of 

my  hair; 
Uver  my  shmibers  your  loving  watch 

keep ; 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 

to  sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of 
the  years ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears,  — 

Toil  witliout  recompense,  tears  all  in 
vain,  — 

Take  them,  and  give  me  my  child- 
hood again! 

\l  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  de- 
cay, — 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth 
away; 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap ;  — 

Kock  me  to  sleep,  mother, —  rock 
me  to  sleep ! 

rired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the 
untrue. 

Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for 
you ! 

Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown 
green. 

Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  be- 
tween : 

Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  pas- 
sionate pain. 

Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence 
again. 

Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so 
deep ; — 

Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 
to  sleep ! 

Over  my  heart  in  the  days  Miat  are 
flown, 

Ko  love  like  mother-love  e\er  has 
shone ; 

Xo  other  worship  abides  and  en- 
dures, — 

Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like 
yours : 

None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away 
pain    ' 

From  the  sick  soul  luul  the  world- 
weary  briiiii. 


Slumber's  soft  calm  o'er  my  lieavv 

lids  creep;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 

to  sleep ! 

Come,    let    your    brown    hair,    just 

lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on   your  shoulders  again  as  o1 

old; 
Let  it   drop    over   my   forehead  to- 
night. 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  awav  from  the 

light; 
For  with   its  sininy-edged    shadows 

once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  swee!.  visions 

of  yore ; 
Lovingly,   softly,   its   bright  billows 

sweep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 

to  sleep! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have 
been  long 

Since  1  last  listened  your  lullaby  song; 

Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall 
seem* 

Womanhood's  years  have  been  only 
a  dream. 

Clasped  to  yoiu-  heart  in  a  loving  em- 
brace. 

With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping 
my  face. 

Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep ;  — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  m( 
to  sleep ! 


UNTIL  DEATH. 

Make  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear 
friend. 
To  love  me,  though  I  die,  thy  whole 
life  long, 
And  love  no  other  till  thy  days  shall 
end  ; 
Nay,  it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so; 
I  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet 
grave 
To  bind  thy  hcait,  if  it  should  choosfl 
to  go :  — 
Love  should  not  be  a  slave. 


ALLEN. 


17 


My  placid  ghost,  I  trust,  will  walk 
serene 
In  clearer  light   than   gilds   those 
eartJily  morns. 
Above  .the    jealousies    and    envies 
keen 
Which  scv  this  life  with  thorns. 

Thou  wouldst  not  feel  my  shadowy 
caress. 
If,  after  death,  my  soul  should  lin- 
ger here ; 
Men's    hearts   crave    tangible,   close 
tenderness, 
Love's  presence,  warm  and  near. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more 
peacefully 
That  thou  wert  wasting  all  thy  life 
in  woe 
For  my  poor  sake;  what  love  thou 
hast  for  me, 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go ! 

Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  I  am 
dead 
The      praises     which    remorseful 
mourners  give 
To  women' s  graves,  —  a  tardy  recom- 
pense, — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

ieap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my 
head 
To  shut  away  the  sunshine  and  the 
dew; 
la&t  small  blooms  grow  there,  and  let 
grasses  wave, 
And  rain-drops  filter  through. 

Thou  VTilt  meet  many  fairer  and  more 
gay 
Than  I;  but,  trust  me,  thou  canst 
never  find 
One  who  will   love  and   serve  thee 
night  and  day 
With  a  more  single  mii.u. 

Forget  me  when  I  die !     The  violets 
Above  my  breast  will  blossom  just 
as  blue, 
Kor  miss  thy  tears  ;  e'en    Nature's 
"^elf  forgets;  — 
3ut  while  I  live,  be^  true ! 


EVERY  DAY. 

■I 

O,  Ti:iFi.iNG  tasks  so  often  done, 

Yet  ever  to  be  done  anew! 
O,  cares  which  come  with  every  sun, 
Morn   after  morn,  tlu;  long  years 
through ! 
We    shrink     beneath     their    paltry 

sway,  — 
The  irksome  calls  of  every  day. 

The  restless  sense  of  wasted  power. 

The  tiresome  round  of  little  things, 
Are  hard  to  bear,  as  hour  by  hour 

Its  tedious  iteration  brings; 
Who  shall  evade  or  who  delay 
The  small  demands  of  every  day  ? 

The  boulder  in  the  torrent's  course 

By  tide  and  tempest  lashed  in  vain. 
Obeys    the     wave- whirled    pebble's 
force. 
And  yields  its  substance  grain  by 
grain ; 
So  crumble  strongest  lives  away 
Beneath  the  wear  of  every  day. 

Who  finds  the  lion  in  his  lair, 
Who  tracks  the  tiger  for  his  life, 

May  wound  them  ere  they  are  aware, 
Or    conquer    them    in    desperate 
strife; 

Yet  powerless  he  to  scathe  or  slay 

The  vexing  gnats  of  every  day. 

The  steady  strain  that  never  stops 
Is  mightier  than  the  fiercest  shock; 

The  constant  fall  of  water-drops 
Will  groove  the  adamantine  rock; 

We  feel  our  noblest  powers  decay. 

In  feeble  wars  with  eveiy  day. 

We  rise  to  meet  a  heavy  blow  — 
Our  souls  a  sudden  bravery  fills  — 

But  we  endure  not  always  so 
The  drop-by-drop  of  little  ills! 

We  still  deplore  and  still  obey 

The  hard  behests  of  every  day. 

The  heart  whicli  boldly  faces  death 
Upon  the  battle-field,  and  dares 

Cannon  and  bayonet,  faints  Ixnieatti 
Tlie  ni'cdlc-poiuts  of  f  rrts  and  cares 

'''lie  stoutest  spirits  they  dismay  — 

The  tiny  stings  of  eveiy  day. 


18 


ALLINOHAM. 


And  even  saints  of  holy  fame, 
Whose  souls  by  faith  have  over- 
come, 

Who  wore  amid  the  cruel  flame 
The  molten  crown  of  martyrdom, 

Bore  not  without  complaint  alway 

The  petty  pains  of  every  day. 


Ah!  more  than  martyr's  aureole, 
And    more   than   hero's  heart   of 
fire. 

We  need  the  humble  strength  of  soul 
Which  daily  toils  and  ills  re((uire;  — 

Sweet  Patience !  grant  us,  if  you  may. 

An  added  grace  for  every  day. 


William  Allingham. 


THE   TOUCHSTONE. 

A  MAN  there  came,   whence    none 
could  tell. 

Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand ; 

And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much. 
Were  many  changed  to  chips  and 

clods. 
And  even  statues  of  the  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Then  angrily  the  people  cried, 
"  The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far; 


Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are ; 
We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  this  unrelenting  guest. 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "■  Let  him 
test 

How  real  is  our  jail!" 

But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the 
sword. 
And  in  a  fire  his  touchstone  burned, 
Its  doings  coidd  not  be  o'erturned. 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 
They    strewed    its    ashes    on    the 

breeze ; 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of 
these 
Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 


AUTUMNAL  SONNET. 

Now  Autumn's  fire  burns  slowly  along  the  woods, 

And  day  by  day  the  dead  leaves  fall  and  melt, 

And  night  by  night  the  monitory  blast 

Wails  in  the  keyhole,  telling  how  it  passed 

O'er  empty  fields,  or  upland  solitudes, 

Or  grim,  wide  wave;  and  now  the  power  is  felt 

Of  melancholy,  tenderer  in  its  moods 

Than  any  joy  indulgent  Summer  dealt. 

Dear  friends,  together  in  the  glimmering  eve, 

Pensive  and  glad,  with  tones  that  recognize 

The  soft  invisible  dew  in  each  one's  eyes. 

It  may  be,  somcwluit  thus  we  shall  have  leave 

To  walk  with  Memory,  when  distant  lies 

Poor  fja-Tth,  where  we  were  wont  to  live  and  grieve. 


ALLSTON  —  AFPLETON. 


19 


Washington   Allston. 


BV  YHOOD. 


Ah,  then  how  sweetly  closed  those 

crowded  days! 
The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like 
rays, 
That  fade  upon  a  sinnmei-'s  eve. 
But  oh!    what    charm,   or    magic 

numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slum- 
bers 


Those     weary,     happy     days    did 

leave? 
When  by  my  bed  1  saw  my  mother 

kneel, 
And    with    her    blessing    took    her 

nightly  kiss; 
Whatever  'J'ime  destioys,  he  cannot 

this  — 
E'en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel.    - 


Thomas  Gold  Appleton. 


TO  ROUSE,  THE   ART  [ST. 

As  when  in  watches  of  the  night  we 
see. 

Hanging  in  tremulous  beauty  o'er 
the  bed, 

The  face  we  loved  on  Earth,  now 
from  us  fled; 

So  wan,  so  sweet,  so  spiritually 
free 

From  taint  of  Earth,  thy  tender 
drawings  be. 

There  we  may  find  a  friend  remem- 
bered ; 

With  a  new  aureole  liovering  round 
the  head, 

Given  by  Art's  peaceful  immortal- 
ity. 

How  many  homes  lialf  empty  fill  the 
place 

Death  vacates,  with  thy  gracious  sub- 
stitutes! 

Not  sensuous  with  color,  which  may 
disgrace 

The  memory  of  the  body  shared  with 
brutes ; 

But  the  essential  spirit  in  the 
face; 

As  angels  see  us,  best,  Affection 
suits. 


TO    WILLIAM  LLOYD    QARRLSON, 
AFTER    THE    WAR. 

Oh!   happiest   thou,   who  from   the 

shining  height, 
Of  tablelands  serene  can  look  below 
Where  glai'ed  the  tempest,  and  the 

lightning's  glow. 
And  see  thy  seed  made  harvest  wave 

in  light, 
And    all    the    darkened    land    with 

God's  smile  bright! 
Leaving  with  him  the  issue.  Enough 

to  know 
Albeit  the  sword  hath  sundered  brolli- 

ers  so, 
Yet  God's    vicegerent   ever    is    the 

Kiglit. 
Nor  will  he  leave  us   bleeding,   but 

his  Time 
Which   healetli    all    things   will    oiu" 

wounds  make   whole. 
While  washed  and   cleansed  of  our 

fraternal  ci'ime. 
Freedom  shall  comit  again  her  starrv 

roll ; 
All  there,  and    moving  with  a  steii 

sul)linH' 
To  music  (;od  sounds  in  the  human 

soul. 


20 


ARNOLD. 


Edwin 

SHE  AND   HE. 

''She  is  dead!"   they  said  to  him. 

' '  Come  away ; 
Kiss  her!  and  leave  her!  —  thy  love 

is  clay!" 

They  smoothed  her  tr  ,sses  of  dark 

brown  hair; 
On  her  forehead  of  marble  they  laid 

it  fair: 

Over    her    eyes,    which    gazed    too 

much. 
They  drew   the   lids  with  a  gentle 

touch ; 

With  a  tender  to'ach  they  closed  up 

well 
The  sweet  thin  lips  that  had  secrets 

to  tell; 

About  her  brows,  and  her  dear,  pale 

face 
They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage 

lace; 

And   drew    on    her  white    feet  her 

white  silk  shoes;  — 
Which  were  the  whiter  no  eye  could 

choose ! 

And  over  hei"  bosom    they  crossed 

her  hands; 
"Come   away,"    they   said,  —  "God 

understands!" 

And  then  there  was  Silence;  —  and 

nothing  there 
,-iit    the    Silence  —  and     scents    of 

eglantere. 

And  jasmine,  and   roses,  and   rose- 

maiy ; 
For  they  said,  "As  a  lady  should  lie, 

lies  she!" 

And  they  held  their  breath  as  they 
left  the  room, 

Willi  a  .•shudder  to  glance  at  its  still- 
ness and  gloom. 


Arnold. 

But  he  —  who  loved  her  too  well  ta 

dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  the  beautiful 

dead, — 

He  lit  his  lamp,  and  took  the  key. 
And   turn'd    it!  —  Alone   again  —  he 
and  she! 

He  and  she;  but  she  would  not  speak, 
Though   he  kiss'd,  in  the  old  place, 
the  quiet  cheek. 

He  and  she ;  yet  she  would  not  smile, 
Though  he  call'd  her  the  name  that 
was  fondest  erewhile. 

He  and  she;  and  she  did  not  move 
To  any  one  passionate  whisperof  love ! 

Then  he  said,  "  Cold  lips!  and  breast 

without  breath ! 
Is  there  no  voice  ?  —  no  language  of 

death 

"Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the 

sense. 
But  to  heart  and  to  soul  distinct, — 

intense  ? 

"See,  now, —  I  listen  with  soul,  not 

ear  — 
What  was  the  secret  of  dying.  Dear  ? 

"  Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all, 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower 
fall '.' 

"  Or  was  it  a  greater  nuirvel  to  fee! 
The  peifect    calm    o'er    the    agony 
steal  ? 

"Was   the   miracle   greatest  to  find 

how  deep. 
Beyond  all  dreams,  sank  downward 

that  sleep  ? 

"  Did  life  roll  backward   its  record, 

Deal-, 
And  sliow,  as  they  say  it  does,  past 

things  rlcar  ? 


ARNOLD. 


21 


"And  was  it  the  innermost  heart  of  i  ""What  a  stranee   delicious  aiuaze- 


the  bliss 
To  find  out  so  what  a  wisdom  love  is  ? 

"Oh,  ]5erfect  Dead!  oh,  Dead  most 

dear, 
I  hold  the  bi'eath  of  my  soul  to  hear; 

"  1  listen  —  as  deep   as  to   horrible 

hell. 
As  high  as  to  heaven!—  and  you  do 

not  tell! 

"There  must  be  pleasures  in  dying. 

Sweet, 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to 

feet! 

"I  woidd  tell  you.  Darling,  if  1  were 

dead. 
And  'twere  your  hot  teais  upon  my 

brow  shed. 

"  I  would  say,  though  the  angel  of 

deatli  had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  luisaid. 

"FoM    should  not  ask,  vainly,  with 

streaming  eyes. 
Which   in    Death's    touch   was    the 

chiefest  sui-prise; 

"  The  very  strangest   and  suddenest 

thing 
Of  all  the  surprises  thtit  dying  must 

bring." 

Ah!   foolish  world!   Oh!   most  kind 

Dead ! 
Thougli  he  told  me,  who  will  believe 

it  was  said? 

Who  will  believe  that  he  heard  her 

.say, 
With  the  soft  rich  voice,  in  the  dear 

old  way:  — 

"Tlie  utmo.st  wonder  is  this, — I  hear, 
And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss 
you.  Dear; 

"  I  can  speak,  now  you  listen  with 

soul  alone; 
If  your  soul  could  see,  it  would  all 

be  sliowu. 


ment  is  Death, 
To    be  without    body    and    bieallie 
without  breath. 

"  1  should  laugh  for  joy  if  you  did 

not  cry: 
Oh,  listen!  Love  lasts!  —  love  never 

will  die. 

"1  am  only  your  Angel  who  was  your 

Bride; 
And  1   know,   that   though   dead,   1 

have  never  died.''  " 


AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA, 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends: 

Faithful  friends!     It  lies,  1  know. 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  .snow; 
And  ye  say,  "  Alxlallah's  tlead!" 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head, 
I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
1  pan  hear  your  sighs  anil  pi-ayers; 
Yet  I  smile  and  whispei'  this, — 
''  /am  not  the  thing  you  kiss; 
('ease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie; 
It  wun  mine,  it  is  not  I."" 

Sweet  friends!  What  the  women  lava 
For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave. 
Is  a  tent  which  1  am  quitting, 
Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 
Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 
Like  a  liawk  my  soul   .ath  passed. 
Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room, — 
The    w  earer,    not    the    garb,  —  the 

plume 
Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 
Which  kept  him  from  these  splendid 

stars. 

Loving  friends!     Be  wise  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye, — 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'Tis  an  em])ty  sea-shell, —  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone; 
The  sliell  is  broken,  it  lies  their; 
The  pearl,  the  all.  the  soul,  is  here, 


22 


ARNOLD. 


Tis  ai  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  loved  him;  let  it  lie! 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more. 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  his  store! 

Allah  glorious!    Allah  good! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood ; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends ; 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  t)ie  man  whom  ye  call  dead. 
In  unspoken  bliss,  instead, 
Lives  and  loves  you;  lost,  'tis  true, 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you ; 
But  in  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  mifulBlled  felicity, — 
In  enlarging  paradise, 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends!  Yet  not  farewell; 
Where  I  am,  ye,  too,  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  yotu-  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space. 
When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepped 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught,- 
Tb.at  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain, — 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain; 
Only  not  at  death, —  for  death, 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 
Viewed  fi'om  Allah's  throne  above; 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home ! 
7m  Allah  ilia  Allah!  yea! 
Thou  love  divinv !    Thou  love  alway ! 


He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE. 

If  on  this  verse  of  mine 
Those  eyes  shall  ever  shine. 
Whereto     sore-wounded    men    have 

looked  for  life. 
Think  not  that  for  a  rhyme. 
Nor  yet  to  fit  the  time. 
1   name   tby   name, —  true  victor   in 

this  strife! 
But  let  it  serve  to  say 
That,  when  we  kneel  to  pray. 
Players  rise  foi'  thee  thine  ear  shal. 

never  know; 
And  that  thy  gallant  deed. 
For  God,  and  for  our  need. 
Is  in  all  hearts,  as  deep  as  love  can 

go. 

'Tis  good  that  thy  name  springs 
From  two  of  Earth's  fair  things  — 
A  stately  city  and  a  soft-voiced  bii'd; 
'Tis  well  that  in  all  homes. 
When  thy  sweet  story  comes. 
And  brave  eyes  fill  —  that  pleasant 

sounds  be  heard. 
Oh  voice!  in  night  of  fear, 
As  night's  bird,  soft  to  hear, 
Oh  great  heart !  raised  like  city  on  a 

hill; 
Oh  watcher!  worn  and  pale. 
Good  Florence  Nightingale, 
Thanks,  loving  thanks,  for  thy  large 

work  and  will ! 
England  is  glad  of  thee  — 
Christ,  for  thy  charity. 
Take  thee  to  joy  when  hand  and 

heart  are  still! 


ARNOLD. 


2h 


George   Arnold. 


IN  THE  DARK. 

(The  aflthor's  last  poem,  written  a  few 
•'ays  before  his  death.] 

A.LL    moveless    stand    the    ancient 
cedar-trees 
Along  the  drifted  sand-hills  where 
they  grow ; 
And  from  the  darkness  comes  a  wan- 
dering breeze, 
And  waves  them  to  and  fro. 

A   murky  darkness    lies    along    the 
sand, 
When  bright  the  sunbeams  of  the 
morning  shone, 
And  the  eye  vainly  seeks  by  sea  and 
land 
Some  light  to  rest  upon. 

No  large,  pale   star  its   glimmering 
vigil  keeps; 
An  inky  sea  reflects  an  inky  sky; 
xind  the  daik  river,  like  a  serpent, 
creeps 
To  where  its  black  piers  lie. 

Strange  salty  odors  through  the  dark- 
ness steal, 
And  through  the  dark,  the  ocean- 
thunders  r6ll; 
Thick  darkness  gathers,  stifling,  till 
I  feel 
Its  weight  upon  my  soul. 

1  strevch  my  hands  out  in  the  empty 
air; 
I  strain  my  eyes  into  the  heavy 
night; 
Blackness    of     darkness !  —  Father, 
hear  my  prayer! 
Grant  me  to  see  the  light! 


CUI  BONO? 

A  HARMi.ESS  fellow,  wasting  useless 
days, 
Am  1:1  lovf  my  comfort  a»d  my 
leisure; 


Let   those  who  wish  them   toil  for 

gold  and  praise; 
To  me  the  summer-day  brings  mo?*' 

of  i^leasure. 

So,  here  upon  the  grass,  I  lie  at  ease, 
While  solemn  voices  from  the  Past 
are  calling. 
Mingled  with  rustling  whispers  in  the 
trees, 
And  pleasant  sounds  of  water  idly 
falling. 

There  was  a  time  when  !  had  higher 
aims  - 
Than  thus  to  lie  among  the  flow- 
ers and  listen 
To  listening  birds,  or  watch  the  sun- 
set's flames 
On  the  broad  river's  sui-face  glow 
and  glisten. 

There  was  a  time,  perhaps,  when  I 
had  thought 
To  make  a  name,  a  home,  a  bright 
existence: 
But  time  has  shown  me   that    my 
dreams  are  naught 
Save  a  mirage  that  vanished  with 
the  distance. 

Well,  it  is  gone:  I  care  no  longer 
now 
For  fame,  for  fortune,  or  for  empty 
praises; 
Rather  than  wear  a  crown  upon  ip\ 
brow, 
I'd    lie    forever   here    among  the 
daisies. 

So  you,  who  wish  for  fame,  good 
friend,  pass  by; 
With  you  1  surely  ca->not  think  to 
'luarrcl: 
Give    me    peace,    rest,    this    bank 
whereon  I  lie. 
And  spare  ine  both  the  labor  an(; 
th<>  laurel! 


ARNOLD, 


Matthew   Arnold 

YOUTH'S  AGITATIONS. 


When  I  shall  be  divorced,  some  ten 

years  hence, 
J'roui  this  pool'  present  self  which  I 

am  now; 
When   youth   has    done    its   tedious 

vain   expense 
Of  passions  that  forever  ebb  and  flow ; 

Shall  I  not  joy  youth's  heats  are  left 

behind, 
And  breathe  more  happy  in  an  even 

clime?  — 
Ah  no,  for  then  I  shall  begin  to  find 
A   thousand    virtues   in  .  this    hated 

time! 

Then  I  shall  wish  its  agitations  back, 

And  all  its  thwarting  currents  of  de- 
sire; 

Then  I  shall  praise  the  heat  which 
then  I  lack. 

And  call  this  flurrying  fever,  gener- 
ous fire; 

And  sigh  that  one  thing  only  has 
been  lent 

I'o  youth  and  age  in  common  —  dis- 
content. 


IMMORTALITY. 

Foiled  by  our  fellow-men,  depress' d, 

outworn. 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its 

way. 
And,  Patience!  in  another  life,  we  say. 
The  world  shall  be  thrust  doion,  and 

zoe  up-borne. 

And   will   not,   tlien,   the    immortal 

armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor,   routed   leavings? 

or  will  they. 
Who   fail'd   under  the  heat  of   this 

life's  day. 
Support  the  fervors  of  the  heavenly 

morn  ? 


No,  no!  the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept    on    after  the   grave,    but  not 

begun ; 
And    he    wlio     flagg'd    not    In    the 

eartlily  strife, 

P'loiii  strength  to  strength  advancing 

only  he, 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles 

won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal 

life. 


EAST   LONDON. 

'Tavas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun 
overhead 

Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Beth- 
nal  Green, 

And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his 
windows  seen 

In  SpitaKields,  look'd  thrice  dis- 
pirited. 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and 

said : 
"  111  and  o'erwork'd,  how  fare  you  in 

this  scene?" — 
"Bravely!"  said  he;  "for  I  of  late 

have  been 
Much    cheer'd    with    thouglits     of 

Christ,  the  living  bread.'''' 

()  human  soul!  as  long  as  thou  canst 

so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and 

flow. 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if 

thou  roam  — 
Not    with    lost    toil     Miou    laborest 

through  the  night! 
Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'sC 

indeed  thy  home. 


ARNOLD. 


25 


AUSTERITY  OF  rOETRY. 

That  son  of  Italy  wlio  ineCi.  (o  blow, 
Ere  Danto  came,  the  trump  of  sacred 

s,ong, 
111    Ills    light    youth    amid   a   festal 

throng 
Sate  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public 

show. 

Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front 
did  glow 

Youth  like  a  star;  and  what  to  youth 
belong  — 

Gay  raiiiK^nt,  sparkling  gauds,  ela- 
tion strong. 

A  prop  gave  way  i  crash  fell  a  plat- 
form! lo. 

Mid    struggling    sufferers,    hurt    to 

death,  she  layi 
Shuddei-ing,  they  drew  her  garments 

off  —  and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth, 

while  skin. 

Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  the  Muse! 

young,  gay. 
Radiant,  adorn'd  outside;  a  hidden 

ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 


{From  Memorial  Verses.l 
GOETHE. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 
He  read  each  woimd,  each  weakness 

clear; 
And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place. 
And    said:    Thou    ailest    here,    and 

here  ! 


EARLY  DEATH  AND   FAME. 

For  him  who  must  see  many  years. 
1  praise  the  life  which  slips  away 
Out  of  the  light  am)  mutely:  which 

avoids 
Fame,   and   her  less  fair  followers, 

envy,  strife, 
Stupid  detraction,  jealousy,  cabal. 
Insincere  praises;  which  descends 
The  quiet  mossy  track  to  uge. 


But,  when  immature  death 
Beckons  too  early  the  guest 
From  the  half-tried  banquet  of  life, 
Young,  in  the  bloom  of  his  days; 
Leaves  no  leisure  to  press, 
Slow  and  surely,  the  sweets 
Of  a  tranquil  life  in  the  shade  — 
Fidler  for  him  be  the  hoiu's! 
Give  him  emotion,  thotigh  pa'n! 
Let  him  live,  let  him  feel :  /  have  lived. 
Heap  up  his  moments  with  life! 
Triple  his  pulses  with  fame! 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

Weaf.y  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be. 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which 

bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit 

sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 
O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 
"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have 

calm'd  me. 
Calm  me,   ah,   compose   me  to   the 

end! 

"  All,  once  more,"  1  cried,  "  ye  stars 

ye  waters. 
On  my  heart    your    mighty   charm 

renew ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  1  gaze  upon  yon. 
Feel    my   soul    becoming    vast    like 

you!" 

From  the  intense,   clear,   star-sowr 

vault  ot  heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the   rustling  night-air  came   the 

answer: 
'•  Wouldst  thou  he  as  these  are  ?  Live 

as  they. 

'•ITnaffrighted  by  the  silence  roun^l 
them. 

ITndistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 

These  demand  not  that  the  things 
without  tliem 

Yield  Ihem  love,  amusement,  sym- 
pathy. 


i:6 


BAILEY— BAILLIE. 


•'  And   with    joy  the  stars  perform 

In  their  own  tasks  all  their  power* 

tlifir  shining. 

pouring. 

And  tiic  i^i-a  its  long  nioon-silver'd 

These   attain"  the    mighty    life    you 

roll; 

see." 

Fur   scjf-poisi'd    ihi'y   live,    nor   pine 

with  noting 

O  air-born  voice!  long  sinee.  sevt-nly 

All  the  fcvtT  of  some  differing  soul. 

clear, 

A  cry  like  thine  in   mine  own  lu-art 

"  Uounded  by  themselves,  and  unre- 

I  hear: 

gardful 

"  Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and   know 

In  w  hat  state  God's  other  works  luav 

that  he 

be, 

\Vliotinds  himself,  loses  his  misery ! ' 

Philip  James   Bailey. 

THi:  Tinh:  MHAsi'in-:  or  inn:. 

Wk  live  in  deeds,  not  years;  in  thoughts,  not  breath; 

In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  the  dial. 

We  should  count  liuie  by  lieart-lbroiis  when  they  beat 

For  (;od.  for  uiau,  for  duty-      He  most  lives. 

Who  thinks  :uo^t,  fci'ls  noblest,  ai'ls  the  best 

Life  is  i)ut  a  means  unio  an  end  —  llial  end. 

Uegiiiuiug,  mean,  ami  end  to  all  things,  God. 


Joanna    Baillie. 

THE    WOIITU  OF  I'AMF.. 


'^)iil  who  shall  lightly  say,  thai  Fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name! 
Whilst  in  thai  soiuid  there  isaejiarm 
The    nerves    to   brace,   the    heart    to 

\^arm, 
\-.  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead, 
1  be  young  from  slothful  conch  will 

start, 
\iid     vow,    with    lifted     hands    out- 

spn-jwl. 
Like  ihem  to  aet  a  noble  |iarl'' 

oil!  who  shall  lightly  say  that  Fame 
is  nothing  but  an  emply  name! 
When,    but    for    those,    our    udghtv 
dead. 

All  ages  iiiist  a  blank  wimld  be. 
.siunk  in  oblivion's  unuky  bed, 

A  deseii  bare,  asbipless  ••ea'.' 


Thi  y  are  tlie  distant  objects  seen, — 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

oil!  who  shall  lightly  s.iy  that  Fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  eni|)ly  name! 
When  nii-mory  of  the  uiiu'hty  di.id 

To  I'arlh-worn  pilgrim's  wist'ul  eyt 
The  brightest  lays  of  eheering  shed, 

Thai  point  to  innnortalily'.' 


77/ A'   KIVTF.N. 

Wanton    «lroll,    who.se    hannlcsr 
play 
IJeguiles  the  rustic's  closing  day. 
W  bell  drawn  the  evening  fire  aboui. 
S:'    i^ed  crone  ailtl  ibollLlhtless  lout. 
Anil  eliild  Upon  his  three-fool  stool, 
Walling  till  his  supper  cool; 


BAILLIE. 


And   maid,  whose  cheek   outblooms 

the  rose. 
As  bright  the  blazing  fagot  glows, 
Who,  bending  to  llie  friendly  light 
Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight; 
Coiuf,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive 

graces, 
Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backwaid    coll'd,   and    crouching 

low, 
With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe. 
The    housewife's     spindle    whirling 

round. 
Or    thread,   or    straw,   that    on   the 

ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye; 
Then  onwai'd  stealing,  fiei'cely  spring 
'■poll  the  futile,  faithless  thing. 
\ow.  v^h('eli^g  round,  with  bootless 

skill. 
Thy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still, 
As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide; 
Till  from  thy  centre,  starting  fair, 
Thou  sidelong  rear'st,  with  rump  in 

air. 
Erected  stiff,  and  gait  awry. 
Like  madam  in  her  tantrums  high: 
Though  ne'er  a  madam  of  them  all, 
Whose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall 
More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays, 
To    catch    the    admiring    stranger's 

gaze  .... 

But  not  alone  by  cottage  fire 
I)o  rustics  rude  thy  featsVlinire; 
The    learned   sage,    whose    thoughts 

cxjilorc 
i'he  widest  range  of  human  lore, 
Or,  with  unfettci'd  fancy,  fly 
Through  airy  heights  of  poesy, 
Pausing,  sniiK's  with  alter'd  air, 
To  see  thee  climb  his  elbow-chair, 
f)r,  .struggling  on  the  mat  below, 
Uold  warCuf  with  his  slipi)er"d  toe. 
riic  wiilow'd  dame,  or  lonely  maid, 
VVho  in  the  still,  but  cheerless  shade 
Of  home  unsocial,  spends  her  age. 
And  rarely  turns  a  letter'd  page; 
Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  fall 
The  rounded  cork,  or  paper  ball. 
Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 


The  ends  of  ravell'd  skein  to  catch, 
But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  wiL. 
Perplexing  oft  her  sober  skill.  .  .  .  . 


MY    LOVE   IS   Oy  HER    WAY. 

Oh,  welcome  bat  and  owlet  gray, 
Thus  winging  low  your  airy  way! 
And  welcome  moth  and  drowsy  fly 
That  to  mine  ear  comes  humming  by! 
And  welcome  .shadows  dim  and  deep. 
And  stars  that  through  the  pale  sky 

peep ; 
Oh  welcome  all  I  to  me  ye  say 
My  woodland  love  is  on  her  way. 

Upon  the  soft  wind  floats  her  hair. 
Her  breath  is  on  the  dewy  air; 
Her  steps  are  in  the  whisper'd  souiul. 
That  steals  along  the  stilly  ground. 
Oh,  dawn  of  day,  in  rosy  bower, 
What  art  thou  to  this  witching  liour  .' 
Oh,  noon  of  day,  in  sunshine  bri^li'. 
What  art  thou  to  this  fall  of  night  :^ 


SNATCHES   OF   MIRTH  IX  A   DARK 
LIFE. 

Didst  thou  ne'er  see  the  swallow's 

veering  breast, 
Winging  the  air  beneath  some  murky 

cioud 
In  the  sunned  glimpses  of  a  s»nrTii\- 

day. 
Shiver  in  silvery  brightness  ? 
Or  boatman's  oar,  as  vivid  lightning 

flash 
In  the  faint  gleam,  that  like  a  spirit's 

path 
Tracks  the  still   waters  of  some  sul- 
len lake '.'  ■ 
Or  lonely  tower,  from  its  brown  nia.ss 

of  woods. 
Give  to  the  jiarting  of  a  wintry  sun 
One  hasty  glance  in  mockery  of  the 

night 
Closing  in  darkness  round  it?  (Gentle 

friend ! 
f'liide   not  her  iiiiilh    who    was   sad 

yesterday. 
And  may  be  so  to-morrow.) 


•28 


BALL  AN  TINE  —  BARBAULD. 


James   Ballantine. 

ILKA    BLADE    ()'  (iltASiS   KEI'S    ITS    Al.\    />l!Af'   n'  HEW. 

CuNPiDK  ye  aye  in  Providenct'.  for  Provitlcin't'  is  kind. 

And  ix-ar  yt'  a'  lit't'"s  chanviPs,  wi"  a  calm  and  tran<|nil  mind, 

'i'lioniili  pressed  and  lieniincd  on  every  side,  lia'e  faith  and  v<'"ll  win  Ihrougk 

For  liiva  hladi-  o'  ^^ass  keps  its  ain  draji  o"de\v. 

(Jin  ri't'i  t'iMi'  fri.  iiils  or  erost  in  love,  as  wliilcs  nardoulil  y<'ve  been, 
(Jrief  lies  dei-p  hidden  in  your  heart,  or  tears  (low  fra(>  yoin*  een, 
liiliivc  ii  lo!  I  he  best,  and  trow  there's  good  in  store  for  yon, 
For  ilku  blade  o"  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o"  dew. 

In  lang.  lang  days  o'  simmer,  when  the  elear  and  elondless  sky 
Uefnses  ae  wee  drap  o'  rain  to  natnre  jiarehed  and  dry. 
Thf  genial  niu'ht.  wi"  balmy  breath,  gars  verdm'e  .spring  anew. 
And  ilka  bladt-  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o"  dew. 

Sai'.  lest  "mid  fortune's  sunsliinc  we  should  feel  owre  proml  and  hie. 
And  in  oin'  pride  forget  lo  wii)e  the  tear  frae  pooiiiih's  ee. 
Some  wee  dark  ilonih  o"  sorrow  eome.  we  ken  na  whence  or  hoo, 
But  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 


Anna    Letitia    Barbauld. 


LIEE. 

1,11  i:I  I  know  not  what  Ihon  art. 
ISnt  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  whiii.  or  how.  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yel. 

liifel  we've  been  lf)nu  together 
'riironnh  pleasant  aiKllbrouuh  ejuudy 

Wi-allKT". 

"I'is   hard    lo  part    when   friend>  are 

dear  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear: 
—  Then  steal  awiiy.  give  little  w.irn- 

ing. 
Choose  ihine  own  tlini-; 
Say  in)t  (Jood   Nii,'hl.  —  but   in   som<- 

brigblir  elime 
Hid  ine  (iood  .Morning. 


THE    DEATH    OE    THE    VinTlOUfi. 

SWKKT  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  I 
When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 

How  niil(ll\  beam  the  closing  eyes. 
How    genily    heaves    Ih'    exjiiring 
breast. 

.So  fades  a  sunuuer  cloud  away 
.So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are 
o'er. 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 
.So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shon  , 

Triiuni'lianl  smiles  the  victor  brow, 
Fanned    by   some    angel's    jmride 
wing; — 
Where  is.  ()  (;ravel  Ihy  vieiory  now! 
\w\    where,  insidious  Deulli,   ihy 
bthig! 


BARK  lilt  —  BAliLOW. 


29 


Faiewcl),  conflicting  joys  and  foars, 
Whore   liglit   and   sliadf   allfrnate 
(Ivveii: 
How   blight    the   michanging    morn 
appears ;  — 
Farewell,   iuconstanl  world,   fare- 
well! 


Its  duty  done,  —  as  sinks  (he  day. 
Light    from    its    load     the    spirit 
flies; 
While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to 
say 
"tSweet  is  the  scene  when  Virtue 
dies! " 


David   Barker 

THE  rnvERRn  bhidge. 


VvA.i.  ihe  fainting  soul  in  the  we.ary 
form, 
There's    a    world    of     the    purest 
bhss, 
That  is  linked  as  the  soul  and  form 
are  linked. 
By  a  covereil  bridge  with  this. 


Yet  to  reach  that  realm  on  the  other 
shoi-e. 
We  must  pass  through  a  transient 
gloom, 
And    nuist   walk   unseen,    unhelped, 
and  alone 
Throui;li  that  covered  bridge  —  the 
tomb. 


But  we  all  pass  over  on  equal  terms. 

For  the  universal  toll 
Is  the  outer  garb,  which  the  hand  of 
God 

Has  flung  around  the  soui. 

Though  the  eye  is  dim  and  the  bridge 
is  dark. 
And  the  river  it  spans  is  wide, 
Yet  Faith  points  through  to  a  shirk- 
ing mount 
That  looms  on  the  othei  side. 

To  enable  our  feet  on  the  next  day's 
march 
To  climb  up  that  golden  ridge. 
We  must    all    lie    down    for    a    nie 
night's  res; 
Inside  of  the  covered  bridge. 


Joel  Barlow. 


TO  FREEDOM. 


Si)ring  from  imeqiial  sway;  and  ho^\ 

they  fly 
Before  the  splendor  of  thy  peaceful 

eye; 
TTnfold  at  last  the  genuine  social  plan, 
The  mind's  full  scope,  the  dignity  o^ 

man. 
i  Bold    nature   bursting    through    her 


Sun  of  the  moral  world!  effulgent 
source 

Of  mai  's  best  wisdom  and  his  stead- 
iest force, 

Houl-sean  liini;  F'reedom !  here  assume 
thy  stand. 

And   radiate  hence  to  every   distant  |  long  disguise, 

land;  And  nationsdaringtobejustam'  vise 

Tuiut    out    and    prove   how    all    the  I  Yes!  righteous  Freedom,  heaven  and 
scenes  of  strife,  j  earth  ami  si-a 

'"he  shock  of  states,  the  impassion'd  I  Yield  or  withhold  their  various  g!'"*: 
broils  of  life,  I  for  thee; 


so 


UAltSAHO. 


I'mti'cLetl  intiustry  beneath  tliy  rei^n 
L.e;nls   all   the    virtues    in   her   filial 

train: 
''(»iira!;<()Us  Probity,  will)  browserenc; 
Ami    r.'iii|ieranre  calm  presents  her 

liiai-iil  mien; 
."onleiitnient.     Moderation,     Labor, 

Art, 
Mould  the  new  man  and  humanize 

his  heart; 


To   publie   i)lenty,  i"i^<il«i    •'«''-'*♦*    di 

lates. 
Domestic  jjeace,  to  haimony  of  stales. 
Protected  Industry,  carecrint,'  far, 
Detects  the  cause,  ami  cunis  the  rai;e 

of  war. 
And  sweeps,    with  forceful  arm.  to 

their  last  graves, 
Kings    from   the  earth   and  pirates 

from  the  waves. 


Lady   Anne   Barnard. 

ALLI)  liOniS  UI!A  Y. 

V.'he.n  the  slieep  are  in  the  faiild,  when  the  cows  come  hame, 

When  a'  the  weary  warld  to  (|uiet  rest  are  i,'ane; 

The  woes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  siiowcrs  frac  my  cc, 

U nkenned  by  my  gudeman  who  soimdiy  sleeps  by  me. 

Young  .lamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
liiU.  saving  ae  crown  piece,  he'd  naelhing  else  beside. 
'\\}  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gacd  to  sea; 
And  the  crown  and  the  poimd,  C)  they  were  baith  for  mel 

Before  he  had  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  row  was  stown  away; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick  —  my  .lamic  was  at  sea  — 
Ami  Auld   Robin  Gray,  O!  be  came  a -courtin'^  me. 

My  fiither  cou'dna  work  —  my  mother  lou'dna  spin; 
i  lolled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  eow'diia  win; 
Auld  Hob  maintained  them  iiaith,  and,  \\i'  tears  in  his  ee, 
.Said,  "  .lenny,  O!  for  their  sakes,  will  you  marry  me  I" 

My  iieart  it  said  na,  ami  I  looked  for  .Jamie  back; 
liiii  liard  blew  the  winds,  and  bis  >bip  was  a  wrack; 
Ills  »hip  it  was  a  wrack!     Why  diilua  .Jamie  dee  2 
Or,  wliereforo  am  1  span'd  to  i-ry  out,  Wae  is  nu'I 

Mv  father  aryued  salr— my  mol her  didna  speak, 
IJut  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  breiik; 
'I'bey  yied  him  my  band,  but  my  heart  was  in  the  sea; 
Ami  so  .Vuld  Kobiii  (iray,  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  badna  been  his  wife,  a  week  but  only  foiu'. 

When,  mournfu'  !i.h  I  sat  on  the  slane  al  my  door, 

I  saw  m>  .Jamie's  ubaist  —  1  loii'.ina  think  it  lu'. 

Till  he  said.  "  I'm  come  hame.  my  l"^<'.  '•'  mairv  tbeel" 


HATES. 


8\ 


0  sair,  sair  did  \V(>  j^rct't,  iui<l  inickle  say  of  a'  ; 

Ac   kiss   we  took,  iia  iiKiir — 1  Itadc  iiiin  f;ang  awa. 

1  uisli  (iiat    1   were  dead,  Imt  I'm  nac  like  to  (let"; 
For  (),  1  am  but  young  lo  cry  out.  Wao  is  me! 

i  gang  like  a.  ghaist,  and  1  carena  much  to  spin, 
1  daicna  liiink  of  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin; 
Bui  1  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  Aulit  liobin  Gray,  O!  he  is  sae  kind  to  me. 


Charlotte  Fiske   Bates. 


MAKE    THINE  ANGEL  GLAD. 

Fko.m  the  morning  even  until  now, 

Evil  over  thee  full  power  hath  had ; 
Oh,    remember    late    the    shattered 
vow ! 
Turn    to    God,    and    make    thine; 
angel  glad. 

Kin   will    seek    to    snare    thy   heart 
again: 
Though  her  beauty  make  thee  al- 
most ma.l, 
Though    resistance    make   thee   pale 
with  pain. 
Turn    to    God,    and    make    thim' 
angel  glad. 


CONSECRATION. 
A    I.OVKUS    MOOD. 


Am,  the  kisses  that  I  have  given, 
1  grudge  from  my  soid  to-day, 

An(i  of  all  I  have  ever  taken, 
1  would  wipe  the  thought  away. 


How  1  wish  my  lips  had  been  het 
mits. 

Held  apart  from  kith  and  kin. 
That  fresh  from  God's  holy  service, 

To  Love's  they  might  enter  in. 


THE   OLD    YEAR  AND   THE   NEW. 

The  years  have  linings  just  as  gob- 
lets do: 

The  old  year  is  the  lining  of  the 
new. — 

Filled  with  the  wine  of  precious 
memories. 

The  golden  i(J«,s  doth  line  the  silver 
its. 


jrooO/IINES   IN   OCTO/tEfi. 

A.s    dyed    in    blood,    the    streamin;,' 
vines  ;ipi)car. 
While  long  and  low  the  wind  about 
them  grieves: 
The   heart   of    Autunui    nuisi     have 
broken  here 
.\nd  poured  its  treasure  out  upor 
the  leaves. 


"o  I'lCToniA. 


A  MOXAKcii  soul  lialli  ruled  thyself.  O  (^ueen, 
Else  what  it  is,  thv  kingdom  had  not  been. 


;V-> 


HA  TKS. 


Fletcher   Bates. 


TI/F    TWO    nillDS. 

As  leaves  turned  red 

And  some  fell  dead, 
For  sunnier  skies  two  songsters  fled; 

IJul  ere  they  went, 

In  merriment 
Tliey   sum;   how    summer   had    heen 
spent. 

<  )ne  son^  eonfest, 

"  I  had  my  nesi 
Near  yonder  moimtain's  lofty  erest ; 

Where  none  intrude 

In  lonely  mood 
1  carolled  oft  in  solitude." 

Till'  other  snn^ 

"  I  i)uilt  amon'4 
The  cotlai^ei-s.  when'  old  anil  younu 

Who  irod  the  vale 

Would  often  hail 
Me.  a>  their  little  niiihtinu'ale." 


Ihen  off  Ihey  tlew, 

LiUe  speeks  ihey  grew. 
Then  faded  in  the  heavenly  blue. 

Our  human  lot 

Was  theirs,  1  wot, 
For  one  was  missed,  and  one  was  not 


Tin:  I  IF.  An  hfe. 

Wiii;i:k  honeysuckles  scent  the  way, 

I  lieaid  (hee  luunmini:  yesterday ; 
Thy  little  life  was  not  in  vain. 

II  i;alhered  sweets  for  (tther's  gain. 
AntI  somewhere  in  a  dainty  cell 

Is  stored  delicious  hydromel. 

( )  jioel  I  in  thy  calm  retreat, 
l''rnm  joy  and  i,'rief  extiaciing  sweet, 
S(>m<tlay  ihy  fancy's  wings  nuisl  fold 
And  thou  lie  motimdess  and  (old. 
I'crhaiis  thy  garnered  honey  then 
.Mav  he  tin-  food  of  livini;  men. 


Katharine   Lee   Bates. 


THE    OltdASIsr. 

SidWi  V  1  circle  the  dim.  dizzy  stair. 

W'rapl  in  my  cloak's  gray  fold. 
i  luj.ling  my  heart  lest  it  Ihrohlotheair 

lis  radiant  seerel.  for  l hough    1   he 

old. 

Ihouuh  i  totter  and   rock   like  a  ship 

in  till-  wind. 
And     the    siud>eams     come    uut<>    me 
Itroken  and  hlind. 
Vci    my  spirit  drinks  >oulli    from 
(he  ireasiue  we   hold, 
Uielier  than  gold. 


Ihu  their  t-ars  only  hear  mighty  mel- 

<»dies  ringim,'. 
,\nd  I  heir  souls  never  know  'tis  my 
angel  there  singing. 
That  the  grand  organ-angel  awakes 
in  his  cell 

Tiider  my  spell. 


'Ihcre  in  the  midst  of  the  wandering 
I'ipes. 
l-ar  Irom  the  ;;lcaming  keys. 
And   the  org.an-fronl   with  its  gild<-d 
strijies. 
.My  glorious  angel  lies  .sleepiui;  at 
ease. 
I'linees  helow  me,  lips  wel    from  the  !  And  Ihc  hau<l  nf  a  sirangei  nia>  heat 


wine. 
Mush  at  my  organ's  swell; 
Ladies  a|ipland  me  with  clapjiings  as 

line 
.\s  showers   that    splash  in  a  nni- 

sical   well. 


at   his  ;:al. 
.\nil  the  ear  of  a  stranger  may  lisl«'ii 
anil  wail. 
Ihil    III'  only  cries  in   his  pain  for 

lIlCM-, 

NVilless   to  ])lease. 


BA  YL  y. 


3? 


Angt'I,  my  angel,  the  old  man's  haml 

Xnoweth  thy  silver  way. 
J   loose  Uiy  lips  from  their  silence- 
bancl 
And- over  thy  heart-strings  ray  fin- 
gers play, 
While  the  song  peals  forth  from  thy 

mellow  throat, 
And  my  spirit  elimb.s  on  the  climb- 
ing note, 
Till   1   mingle   thy  tone  with   the 
tones  away 
Over  the  day. 


So  I  look  up  as  I  follow  the  tone. 

Up  with  my  dim  old  eyes. 
And  I  wonder  if  organs  have  angel.' 
alone. 
Or  if,  as  my  fancy  might  almost 
surmise, 
Eacli  man  in  liis  heart  folds  an  angel 

with  wings. 
An  angel  tiiat  slumbers,  but  .vakens 
and  sings 
When  thiilled  by  the  touch  that  ij 
sympathy- wise. 
Bidding  it  rise. 


Thomas   Haynes   Bayly. 


THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

The  matron  at  her  mirror. 

With  lier  hand  upon  her  brow, 
Sits  gazing  on  her  lovely  face, — 

Ay,  lovely  even  now! 
AVhy  doth  she  lean  upon  her  hand 

With  such  a  look  of  can;  ? 
Why    steals    that    tear    across     her 
cheek '? 

She  sees  her  first  gray  hair! 

rime  from  her  form  hath  ta'en  away 

Hut  little  of  its  grace; 
His  touch  of  thought  hath  dignified 

The  beauty  of  her  lace. 
Vet  she  might  mingle  in  the  dance 

Where  maidens  gayly  trip, 
So  bright  is  still  her  hazel  eye, 

So  beautiful  her  lip. 

The  faded  form  is  often  markM 

By  sorrow  more  liiuii  vimis. — 
The  wrinkle  on  the.  check  may  be 

The  course  of  secret  tcais; 
'l"he  mournful  lij)  may  nuirmur  ot 

A  love  it  ne'ei- confess'd. 
And  the  dimness  of  the  eye  bctr.iy 

A  heart  that  cannot  icst. 

r>ut  she  hath  been  a  happy  wilt  : 

The  lovei-  of  her  yoi\th 
May    proudly   claim    the   smile    th.il 
pays 

The  trial  of  his  tiuth; 


A  sense  of  slight  — of  loneliness 
Hath  never  banish'd  sleep: 

Her  life  hath  been  a  cloudless  one; 
Then  wheiefore  doth  she  weep ? 

She  lookM  upon  her  raven  locks. — 

What  tlioughts  diil  they  recall  ?  . 
f)h!  not  of  nights  when  they  were 
d(>ck'd 

For  l)ani|uet  or  for  ball; 
They  lirouglit  i)ack  thoughts  of  early 
youth, 

Ere  she  had  learn'd  to  check, 
With  artificial  wreaths,  the  curls 

That  sported  o'er  her  neck. 

She  seeni'd  to  feel  her  mother's  liand 

Pass  lightly  thruuL;h  her  liair, 
And  draw  it  from  her  i)row,  to  leave 

A  kiss  of  kindness  there. 
She  seem'd  to  view  her  father's  smile, 

And  feel  the  i)layful  louidi 
That  sometimes  feign'd  tc  -^tcal  away 

The  curl.->  .she  prized  so  much. 

.Villi  now  she  sees  her  first  gray  liair\ 

( )h.  deem  it  not  a  ciinie 
For  her  to  weep,  when  she  beholds 

The  liis;  footmark  of  Time! 
She  knows  that,  one  by  one,  those 
mule 

.Menienlos  will  increase. 
And    steal    youth,    beauty,    strength 
away. 

Till  life  itself  shall  cease. 


34 


/?/•;.!  TTIE. 


All.  I;iil>  I  li<-i'il  tin-  iiidiiitorl 
Thy  mirror  ti'lls  ilici-  initli; 

Assmiu"  tilt-  inatiim's  fDldcil  veil. 
Resign  the  wreath  of  youth: 


(iol  liiud  it  on  thy  iliiuithl«'r's  hrow. 

In  her  thon'lt  slill  look  lair  — 
'TwtM*' well  would  all  learn  \\i>doni, 
who 

H.'hold  til.'  lirst  jiray  hairl 


James   Beattie. 


[From  The  MinttreL] 
THE  ASCEST   TO    h'AMF.. 

Aiil   who  can  t»dl  how  hard  il  is  tn  j 

clinil) 
'I'lii'  sti'i'|i  w'irro  Fame's  prdud  tcin- 

jilf  ?.l  incs  afar '.' 
AliI  who  can   tell   liou    many  a  s<tul  [ 

sublime  1 

lias  f.-li   the  inlliifnce  of  malij;nanl 

star. 
And  waued  with   Fortune  an  eternal 

war ".' 
(  hecked   hy   the   scolT   of    Pride,   hy 

Envy's  frown. 
Anil  Poverty's  imeon(|ueral)le  bar. 
Ill  lile's  low  vale  reniole  has  pined 

alone. 
Then    dro|>ped    into   the   k'"!^^"''    """ 

pitied  and  unknown! 

[From    I'lie  .\/iii.<itrrl.\ 
THE   (IIMl.MS    OF  y  ATI  HE.  , 

Oil,    how   canst    thou    renounce    the 

loundless  store 
Of     el  arms    which     Naliire    to    Ini 

/olary  yields! 
The  waridinu'  ^midland,  lln-  resound- 
ing shore. 
'I'lie   jiDUip  of  ;;roves,  and  iiarniliire 

of    lields: 

All  thai  llic  p-nial   rav   of   mornini; 

Uilds, 
And    all    that    echoes    to   the   sou^  «)f 

<  ven. 
All    that    the   mountain's   slielierini; 

boxoin   shields,  I 

And   all   the   dreail    ma^'uificcnc)    of 

lieaMMi.  I 

Ob.   bow  call"!    thou   renounce,   and 

liojie   lo   be    fi>li,'i\  i-H  '.'  \ 


I  From  The  .\fiiisfrfl.] 

HE Af TIES  OF  Monsisa. 

I?l  r  who  the  melodies  of  morn   can 

tell  '.' 
The  wild   brook   babbllnj^  down   the 

mountain  side; 
The    lowiuii    herd;    tlie    sheepfold's 

simple  bell; 
The    pipe    of    early    slieplurd    dim 

descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  edioinj:  far  and 

wide 
The  I'lamorons  born  aloui;  the  clilfs 

above ; 
The  hollow  muinmr  of   th"   oci-an 

tide; 
The  hiun  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of 

love. 
Ami   the   fidl   choir  thai    wakes   the 

univ»!rsal  j^rove. 


Tin     <-oiiai;e-curs    at    earlv    pil;;rim 

hark: 
(  i-owned  with  her  jiail   tin    tripping 

milkmaid  sin;;s; 
The     whisllinii     plou;4hmau     stalk- 

alield  :  and.  hai  k! 
Down  the  roiinh  slope  the  pon>ler«»us 

w.'ii;on  rin^s: 
Throu^jh   rustlin;;  corn  I  be  b.ire  as- 
tonished sprin;.;s; 
.slow      lolls      the     villa};e-clock     the 

drowsy    hour; 
The  parlrid'^e  bursts  away  on  whir- 

rlni;  \vin;,'s; 
Deep   mourns   the   liirtle   in  .sei|iie»- 

tered    bow«'r. 
,\nd  shrill  l.uk  caroN  dear  fiom  hei 

aerial  tower. 


BEERS. 


35 


[  From  The  Minstrel.'] 
DEATH  AND   l{ESUIillECTIOA\ 

Whekk  now  the  rill,  melodious, 
'  pure,  and  cool. 

And  meads,  with  life,  and  mirth, 
and  beauty  crowned  '.* 

Ah!  see,  the  luisightly  slime,  and 
sluggish  pool, 

Have  all  the  solitary  vale  em- 
browned ; 

Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each 
melting  sound, 

The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked 
spray. 

And  hark!  the  river  bursting  every 
mound, 

Down  the  vale  thunders,  and  with 
wastefid  sway 

Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the  shat- 
tered rocks  away. 

Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth: 

ISo  lioiuishes  and  fades  majestic  man. 

Fair  is  the  l)ud  his  vernal  morn 
brings  forth. 

And  fostering  gales  a  while  the  nurs- 
ling fan. 

O  smile,  ye  heavens,  serene;  ye  mil- 
dews wan, 

Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his 
balmy  prime. 

Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 

Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent 
wings  of  Time, 

Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all 
the  clime. 


And  be   it  so.      Let   those  deplore 

their  doom 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark 

sojourn ; 
But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  I  he 

tomb, 
(Jan  smile  at  Fate,  and  wonder  liow 

tliey  mourn. 
Shall  Spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no 

more  return  ? 
Is   yonder   wave  the    Sun's    eternal 

bed? 
Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  lusfe 

burn. 
And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influ- 
ence shed. 
Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn 

the  mead. 

Shall    1    be    left    forgotten     in    the 

dust. 
When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower 

revive  ? 
Shall   Nature's  voii^e,  to  man  alone 

unjust. 
Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish, 

hope  to  Hve  ? 
Is   it   for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must 

strive 
With   disappointment,   penury,   and 

pain  ? 
No:  Heaven's  iunuortal  spring  shall 

yet  anive. 
And   man's  majestic    beauty   bloom 

again. 
Bright  through   the  eternal   year  of 

Love's  triumphant  reign. 


Ethel   Lynn    Beers. 


THE   ricKET-dUAItl). 

"Ali,  (|uiet    ai(^ng    the    rolomac," 
they  say, 
"E.\ce])t,   now  and   then,   a   stray 
picket 
Is  shot  as  be  v\a!ks  on  bis  beat  to 
and  fro. 
By  a  rillenian  hid  in  llir  thicket. 


'Tis  nothing  —  a  private  or  two.  now 
and  tlieii. 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the 
battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the 
men 
-Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death- 
rattle." 


36 


BEERS. 


.Ml  <|iiii't  aloiii;  the  rotoina<'  to-iiiu'lit. 
WIkic  llu'  solilitTs  lie   peaeefully 
dreamiii:,': 
Their  tents,  in  lln-  rays  of  tlie  clear 
auHiinii  iiKMiii 
Or  the  iiiilit  of  the  wateii-fms.  are 
gleainiiii;. 
A  tieiimloiis  sii;h.  as  Lhegeulle  night- 
wind 
Throii.,'!!  the  forest-leaves  softly  is 
eret'])ing: 
Wliile  the  stars  up  above,  with  their 
glittering  eyes, 
Keej)    giianl  —  for    the    army    is 
sleeping. 

Tliere's  only  tlie  ^nuiiil  <>|    ih.    lone 
^•■nliy's  ireail 
As  hr  I  ramps  fiom  tin-  ruek  to  the 
fountain. 
Ami    thinks  of    the   luo   in   the  low 
trundle- hed. 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  moun- 
tain. 
Hi-<    musket    falls    slaek  —  his    face, 
dark  and  i^rim. 
(irows      geiiile      with      memories 
tender. 
As  he  multt'rs  a  prayer  for  the  ehil- 
drell   aslee])  — 
For    their    mother — yiaN     Heaven 

delen.l     lierl 

The    moon    seems    to   sldne    just   as 
hrighlly  a-  then. 
Ilial   niiiht  when  lliejovi-  yet  un- 
spoken. 
Leaped    up   to   his   lijis — when    low- 
nuirmured  vows 
Were  |i|eiii;ed  to  lie  eVil   luihrokeu. 
'riieii  thawing  hi.s  sli  eve  roughly  over 
his  eye.s, 
lie  dashe.s  titT  tears  ih.il  are  well- 
iii'/, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its 
place, 
Ai    if    lo    Keep     duwn     the     liearl- 
s\\.  Ililrj. 

He   pas-^es   I  lie  touulaiti,  I  lie  lihuslcd 
pine-tree. 
I  he  fm>l.  U'p  is  lagglu'^  and  weary; 


Vet    onward    he    goes    through    the 
hroad  hell  of  light. 
Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  mi 
dn-ary. 
HarkI  was  it  the  night  wind  that  ru-.- 
tle.l  the  l.'aves? 
Was   it    moonlight  so   wondroiislv 
Hashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rille— •  Ah!  Mary, 
good-hy I " 
And   the  life-hlood   is  elihing  and 
plashing. 

.Vll    «piiet    aloni;    the    I'l'lomae    to- 
niu'lit. 
No   .sound    save   the   r\\A\    of    the 
river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  f.ice 
of  the  dead  — 
'i'he  ])ieket's  otl"  duty  forever! 


ninniisd  riii:  i:.i/:y. 

"IIiiw   many  pounds  does  the  In'.iy 
Weii,'h  — 
lialiy  who  came  hut  a  month  ago? 
How  many  poiuids  from  the  crown- 
ing <'uri 
To  the  rosy  point  of  the  rc-lless 
loe  •.'" 

( .i.iii.ltallwr  tics  the  "kerchief  knot. 

Tenderly      guide.s     the     swingins 
weight. 
.\ud  i-arefully  over  his  glasses  peers 

To  read  the  record,  "only  eight." 

Softly  the  echo  u'oes  arouud : 

'I'lie  lailier  laughs  at  the  tiny  ;irl; 
The    fair    yoinig    mother    s>  igs    the 
\\(irds. 
While    1,'ranilmother    smooths    the 
golden  curl. 

.\nd    stooping    above    the    precious 
thing, 
N'e-tles  a  kiss  within  .i  prayer, 
.Mnrimirinv'  softly  "  I.iltle  oiu'. 

(Jnindtalher    did    not    -.veigli    you 
fair." 


BE  A  UMONT  —  BIINNE  TT. 


37 


Nobody  weigliod  the  baby's  smile, 
Or   the   love   that   came  with   the 
helpless  one; 

Nobody  \vei,<rhed  tlie  thi'eads  of  care, 
From  which  a  woman's  life  is  spun. 

No  index  tells  the  mighty  worth 
Of  a  littU  Ijaby's  quiet  breath  — 

A  soft,  unceasing  incHrononic, 
Patient  and  faithful  until  death. 

Nobody  weighed  the  baby's  soul, 
¥oT  here  on  earth  no  weights  there 
be 


That  could  avail:  (iod  only  knows 
Its  value  in  eternity. 

Only  eight  pounds  to  hold  a  soul 
That  seeks  no  angel's  silver  wing, 

Uut  shrines  it  in  this  human  guise. 
AVithin  so  frail  and  small  a  Ibingl 

Oil.  liiothcrl  laugh  your  uicriy  note, 
lie  gay  and  glad,   but  do  n"l   for- 
g'<'t 
Fiom  i)aby's  eyes  looks  out  a  soid 
That    claims    a    home    in    Eden 
yet. 


Francis   Beaumont. 


ON   THE    TOMliS   LX  W  ESTMI  XSTKi;   Alt  HEY. 


Mortality,  behold  and  fear 
tVliat  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  I 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
."^li'rp  williin  these  heaps  of  stones: 
Ih're  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands. 
\\\w  now  want  strength  to  stir  their 

liands, 
Will  re  fioni  their  pulpitS  seal'd  with 

■  lust 

Tliey    preach,    "  lu  greatness   is   no 
trust." 


Here's  an  acre  scjwn  indeed 
With  the  ricliot  royallcst  seed 
Tha!  till'  cailh  did  (•"cr  suck  in 
Since  llic  liisi  man  died  for  sin: 
Here  the  l)ones  of  birth  have  cried 
■■Tliough   gods   they   were,   as  men 

tiiey  died!" 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things. 
l)i()|il  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings 
lIiTc's  a  woild  of  pomp  and  st:Ue 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  talc. 


William    Cox    Bennett. 


THE   SEASOXS. 

A   i;i.i  i;-i;vi;i)  child   that  sits  amid 
tlie  noon. 
O'crhimg  w  itli  a  lal^urnum's  di-oop- 
ing  sprays. 
Singing  her  liille  .songs,  while  softly 
round 
Along  the  grass  the  clu'iiuered  sun- 
shine plays. 

All  "Deauty  that  is  throufil  in  woman- 
hood 
Pacing  a  sunnner  garden's   foini- 
lained  walks. 


Tbat  stooj)s  to  smooth  a  glossy  span- 
iel down 
'i'o  hi(U^  her  Hushing  cheek  from 
one  wlio  talks. 


.\  happy  niotlier  with   her  fair-faced 
girls, 
In  whose  sweet  spring   again   lici 
youth  she  sees. 
With  shoul  and  dance  and  langli  and 
bound  .tnd  song, 
Stripiiing     in     autuuui    orclianls 
laden  trees. 


68380 


38 


BENSEL. 


All  aired  woman  in  a  wintry  room  — 
Kro*l   oil    llu»   ]>an(',    wiihoiil     tiic 
wliirlinu  snow  — 
ili-adiii'^  old    lottors    of    licr    far-ort 
youlli. 
Of  sorrows  jjusI  and  joys  of  Ion:; 
ago. 


SUMMER    liAIN. 

0  (iKNTi.i:,  gentle  summer  rain, 
I^i't  not  the  silver  lily  pine, 

The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 
To  feel  that  dewy  loueli  of  thine, 

To  ilrink  thy  freshness  onee  again, 

()  gentle,  genlle  summer  rain! 


in  heat,  the  laudseajte  <|uivering  lies; 

The  cattle  jiaiil  henealh  Ihe  tree; 
Througli    par<lrMg    air    and     i)Mrple 
skies 
The   earth    looks   up   in   vain    for 
thee: 
For  thee,  for  thee  it  looks  in  vain, 
U  gentle,  genlle  sununer  rain! 

Come  thou,   and   hrim   tin*    meadow 
ylreams. 
And  soften  all  (lie  hills  v.itli  mist; 
(.)  falling  dew  from  Imrning  <|r.'ams. 
By  thee  shall   hcrh  and   flower  he 
kissed : 
And  earth  shall  hless  thee  yet  again, 
O  gentle,  genlle  summer  rain  I 


James   Berry   Bensel 

IS  AH  A  III  A. 


"Choose  thou  between  I"  and  to  his 
enemy 
The  Arahehief  a  brawny  hand  dis- 
played. 
Wherein,  like  moonlight  on  a  sidlen 
sea, 
Gleamed   the  gray   seimetar's  en- 
graven hhule. 

■' ('hoos(!  thou  l)et  ween  death   at    my 
hand  and  thine! 
f  lose  in   my  power  my  vengeaner 
I   may  wreak; 
Vet   hesiiale  to  strike.     A  hate  like 
mine 
is    noble    still.       Thou    hast    ili> 
choosing  —  speak  I" 

And   Aekbar  stood.     About    him  all 
the   band 
'I'lial    hailed   bin  captor  chieftain, 
with  grave  eyes, 
His  answer  waited,  while  Ib.il   heavy 
IiuikI 
.Strclehed   like  a  bar  bclween  him 
nnri   the  skies. 

htraigbl  in  tin-  face  before  him  .\ck- 
l>ar  sent 
A   sneei'  of   M-oni.    and    raised    bis 
noble  bead  ; 


•■.sirikel"  and  the  desert   monandi, 
as  content. 
Kehnng  the  weapon  at   his  girdle 
red. 

Then  Ackhar  nearer  crept  and  lifted 
high 
Mis  arms  towani  the  heaven  so  far 
and  blue. 
Wherein    the    sunset    niys    began    to 
die- 
While    o'er     the     iiauil     a     decjicr 
sileni-e  gri'W. 

".strike!    I    am    rea<ly!     Didst    ihuu 
think  to  see 
A     son    of    (iberji    si>ill    \ipoii    the 
dust 
lli.s    noble    blood?     Dids      hope    to 
have  my  knee 
IJend   at    thy    feel,   an.    with    one 
mighty  thrust 

"  The  life  thou  hatest  llee  bef«»re  Ibee 
here  '.' 
Sh.iine  on  thee!  on  thy   nice!  art 
thou  the   one 
Who    ha.Ht    so    long    thy    vengeun<-e 
•  'oiiiited  deal  '.' 
My  hale  is  grealei  ;  I  <lid  strike  thy 
son, 


BLAKE. 


3i 


•'Thy  oiip  sou,  Noumiil,  dead  bofore 
my  face: 
And  Ijy  the  swiftest  courser  of  my 
stud 
Sent  {()  thy  door  liis  corpse.     Aye, 
one  might  trace 
Their  flight  across  the   desert   by 
his  l)lood. 

"  Strike!  for  my  hate  is  greater  than 
thy  own!" 
But  with  a  fiown  the  Arab  moved 
away. 
Walked  to  a  distant  palm  and  stood 
alone, 
With  eyes  that  looked  where  pur- 
ple mountains  lay. 

This  for  an  instant:  then  he  turned 
again 
Towartl   the   place  where   Ackbar 
waited  still. 
Walking  as  one  benumbed  with  bit- 
ter pain. 
Or  with  a  hateful  mission  to  fulfil. 


"Strike,  for  I  hate  thee!"   Ackbar 
cried  once  more. 
"  Nay,  but  my  hate  1  cannot  find!" 
said  iioAV 
II is  enemy.    '"  Thy  freedom  I  restore. 
Live;  life  were  more  than  death  to 
such  as  Ihou." 

So  with  his  gift  of  life  the  iiedouiu 
slept 
That  night  untroubled :  but  whcii 
dawn  broke  through 
The  pui-])le  East,  and  o'er  his  eye- 
lids crept 
The  long,  thin  fingers  of  the  light, 
he  drew 

A  heavy  breath  and  woke:  above  him 
shone 
A  lifted  dagger — "Yea,  he  gave 
thee  life, 
But  I  give  death!"   came   in   fierce 
undertone. 
And   Ackbar  died.      It  was  dead 
Noiunid's  wife. 


William    Blake. 


THE  TIGEli. 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night: 
What  immortal  hand  oi-  eye 
Could  fiame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could    twist    the    sinews    of    thine 

heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  Ix-at. 
What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread 

feet  ? 


\\liat     the     hammer?     what     the 

chain  ? 
In  what  fuinace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?     What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clas])  ? 

When   the  stars   threw    down   their 

spears. 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  his  work  to  see? 
Did   He  who  made  the  lamb  make 

Ihoe  •.' 

Tiger!  Tiger!  buruiuu' bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night: 
What  inmiortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  feaiiul  symmetry  ? 


iO 


BLAMIRE  —  BLOOMFIELD. 


Susanna   Blamire. 


UllAT  A/L.S   THIS  UKAItT  W  MISE. 

What  ails  tliis  ho.irt  o'  inim-  ? 

W'liut  ails  this  watery  cf  ? 
W'iia'  .,Mrs  iiu'  a"  turn  pale  as  death 

\Viii'n  I  take  Irave  o'  thee  '? 
W'iifii  ihou  art  far  awa', 

'riiiiii  "It  dearer  grow  to  me; 
IJiit  (  liaiigi'  <)'  place  and  change  o'  folk 

May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

\Vlifii  I  uae  out  at  e'en, 

( )r  walk  at  inorniiig  air. 
Ilk  rustling  l>n>li  will  seem  to  say. 

1  used  to  meet  thee  there. 


'I'lien  I  11  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aiicatli  llie  tree. 
And  when  a  leaf  fas  i"  my  lap, 

1  "II  ca'  't  a  \\on\  fiae  thee. 

1  '11  hie  me  to  the  bower 

That  thou  wi"  roses  ti»'d. 
And    where    wi'     nionv    a    lilii>hinfi 
1)11(1 

1  strove  myself  to  hide. 
1  'II  doat  on  ilka  sjiot 

Where  I  ha'e  heen  wi'  thee; 
And     ca'     to     mind     some     kindly 
word. 

iJy  ilka  burn  and  tr«'e. 


Robert   Bloomfield. 


[From  The  Farmer's  Roy.'\ 

A  sniusa  DA  Y. 

.Advancing  Spring  profusely  spreads 

abroad 
Flowei-s   of   all    huev.    witli    sweetest 

fragrance  storeij ; 
Where'er  she   treads   Love  gladdens 

cv(>ry  plain, 
Delight    on    tiptoe    bears    her    liieid 

train; 
Sweet  Mope  witli  conscious  brow  bo- 
fore  her  (lies. 
A ntir-i paling   wcaltli    from    .Sununer 

skies: 
All  Natme  feels  her  reivovatinvr  sway : 
The     sheep-fed     pasture,     anil     the 

mc.idow  gay; 
And    trees,    and    shrulis.    no    longer 

budding  si-en, 
Display    the    new-grown    branch    of 

ii'iliicr  green; 
<  hi  airv  downs   the   idliirg  shepherd 

n.-s. 

.Vn<l  H<>e.s  lornoiTow    in  the  ni.irbled  | 
skies.  t 


[h'riim  Till-  Fnrmer'i  Roy."] 
A    TUMfFsr. 

.\ni>n     tired      laiiorers     bless     their 

shellering  home, 
When    midnight,   and   the   frightful 

lempesl    come. 
'I'lie    farniei'    wakes,   an<i    sees,    with 

silent  dn-ad. 
The  angry  shafts  of   Heaven  gleam 

round  his  Ix'd : 
Thi'  bursting  cloud  reiterated  roars. 
.Shakes  his  straw  roof,  and  jars  his 

bolted    doors: 
The   slow-w  inucil    storm    along    the 

Iroidiled  skies 
.Spre.'ids    its   dark    cotuse:    the    wind 

begins  to  rise; 
And   full  leafed  ehns.   his  dwelling's 

sbaile  by  day. 
Witli    ndmic   thunder   give   lUs   fui7 

w  ay : 
Soimds  in  the  chimney-top  a  doleful 

peal 
Midsi    pouriu','  rain,  oi    gMsts  of  ral- 

Ihng  hail; 


BLOOMFTELD. 


41 


With  tenfold  dansfi"  low  the  tem- 
pest bends. 

And  ({uick  and  strong  the  sulphurous 
flame  descends: 

The  frightened  mastiff  from  his  ken- 
nel flies, 

And  cringes  at  the  dooi'  with  piteous 
cries.  ... 


Where  now's  the  trifler !  where  the 

child  of  pride  ? 
These  are   the  moments   when    the 

heart  is  tried! 
Nor  hves  the  man,  with  conscience 

e'er  so  clear, 
IJut  feels  a  solenni,  reverential  fear; 
Keels  too  a  joy   relieve   liis  aching 

breast, 
When  tlie  spent  storm  hath  howled 

itself  to  rest. 
Still,    welcome  beats    tlie    long-con- 
tinued shower, 
And    slcej)    protracted,   comes  with 

double  Y)0\ver; 
Calm  dreams  of  bliss  bring  on  the 

morning  sun. 
For  every  luirn  is  Idled,  and  Hai-vest 

done! 


[From  The  Farmer's  Hoy.'] 
HAltVESTINO. 

Hauk  !  where  the  sweeping  scythe 

now  rips  along: 
Each    sturdy    mower,    emulous    and 

strong. 
Whose  writhing  form  meridian  heat 

defies. 
Bends  o'er  his  work,  and  every  sinew 

tries; 
Prostrates  the  waving  treasure  at  his 

feet, 
Uut  spares  the   rising  clover,   short 

and  sweet, 
(-orae.  Health!   come,  .Jollity I    light- 
footed,  cojne; 
Here  hold  your  revels,  and  makr  this 

your  lioiuf. 
Each  iieart  awaits  and  hails  you  as 

its  own; 


Each  moistened  lirow,  tliat  scorns  tc 
wear  a  frown  : 

The  unpeopled  il welling  mounis  its 
tenants  strayed; 

E'en  th(!  domestic  laughing  dairy- 
maid 

Hies  to  the  Held,  the  general  toil  to 
share. 

Meanwhile  the  farmer  quits  liis 
elbow-chair, 

His  cool  brick  floor,  his  pitcher,  and 
his  ease. 

And  braves  the  sultry  beams,  and 
gladly  sees 

His  gates  thrown  open,  and  his  team 
abroad. 

The  ready  gioup  attendant  on  his 
vvoi'd, 

To  turn  the  swarth,  the  quivering 
load  to  real'. 

Or  ply  the  busy  rake,  tlie  land  to 
clear. 

Summer's  light  garb  itself  now  cum- 
brous grown. 

Each  his  thin  doublet  in  the  shade 
throws  down; 

Where  oft  the  mastiff  skulks  with 
half-shut  eye. 

And  rouses  at  the  stranger  passing 
by: 

Whilst  unrestrained  the  social  con- 
verse flows, 

And  every  breast  Love's  powerful 
inqiulse  knows. 

And  rival  wits  with  more  than  rustic 
grace 

Confess  the  presence  of  a  pretty  face. 


For.  lol  encircled  there,  tho  '.ovely 

maid, 
In   youth's   own   bloom  and    native 

smiles  arrayed ; 
Her  hal  awry,  divested  of  her  gown. 
Her  creakim;  stays  of  leather,  stout 

and  i)rnwn;  — 
Invidious  barrier!    Why  art  thou  so 

high, 
Wlien  the  sligbi  lovcringof  her  neck 

sli[)s  by. 
There   half    revealing'   to    the    eager 

sight. 
Her    full,    ripe    bosom,    exquisitely 

whiti-  ? 


42 


BLOOMFIELD. 


Ill   many   i\   local    talr   of    liannlcss 

luirtli. 
And    nuiiiy    u    jest    of    inomentai^ 

birlh. 
Slit'  boars  a  part,  and  as  t>ho  stops  to 

sj)<>ak. 
Strokes  Ijack  the  ringlets  from  her 

glowing  eheek. 


TO  HIS  \fOTHEirs  S PIDDLE. 

Till    hand  that  wore  thee  smooth  is 

cold,  and  spins 
.Nil     more!     Debility   pressed    hard, 

around 
The  seal  of  life,  and  terroi-s  filled  her 

brain.  — 
Nor  causeless  terrors,     (iiants  grim 

and  bold, 
'I'hni-    mii,'iily    ones    she    feared   to 

natet :  —  they  eanie  — 
Ui.NTKi;.  <)M>  Ac.K,  and   Povi'.irrv. 

—  all  came; 

And  when  D.-iith  beheld 
Her  triiiulation.  he  fullilled  his  task, 
And  to  her  tn-niblini^  han<l  and  heart 

at  once, 
fried.  "  S])iii  uo  tiiorc" — Thou  then 

well  left  half  nil.fd 
With  this  soft  downy  fleece,  such  as 

she  wound 
Tlirou;;li  all  her  days,  she  who  could 

spin  so  well. 
il.ilf  filled  wi'il  thou  —  half  finished 

when   she  died  ! 
-—  \,\V  finished  '.'     "I'is  the  motto  of 

■  he  world: 
»Vt:   sjiin    vain    thread.-,    and   strive, 

and  die 
iVitli  silli(!r  things  than  siiindles  on 

uur  hands! 

Then  feelin;,'.  as  !  do,  resist lessly, 

riic  bias  set  upon  mv  soul   for  \e|se. 

Uh,  slioiild  old  a;;e  still  find  my  brain 

at  work. 
And  Death,  o  ii  »ome  pool  fra;;menl 

siridiii'.,',  iTv 
"Hold!     spill     no     more!"     grant, 

Ileuven.  ihal  purity 


Of  thought  and  texture,  may  assirai- 

l.ite 
That  fragment   unto  thee,  in  useful- 
ness. 
In    worth,    and     Miowy    innocence. 

Til. 11  .shall 
The    village    school-mistress,    shine 

brighter  through 
The  exit  of  hei'boy;  and  both  shall 

live. 
And  virtue  triuijiph  too;  and  virtue's 

tears. 
Like    Heaven's    pure    blessings,    fall 

upon  their  grave. 


i.ovR  or  Tin-:  coiwtry. 

[WritU'ii  al  Clare  llall.  llert.s,  .June,  18(M.) 

\Vi';i.co.Mi;,  silence!  welcome,  jieacel 

Oh.  most  welcome,  holy  shade! 
Thus  I  prove,  as  years  increase, 

.My  heart  and  soul  for  (|uiet  made. 
Thus  I  lix  my  liini  belief 

While  rapture's  rushing  tears   de- 
scend. 
That  every  flower  and  everj-  leaf 

Is  moral  Truth's  unerring  friend. 

1  woulil  not  for  a  world  of  gold 

'Ihat    Nat  lire's   lovely    face    should 
tire; 
p-ountain  of  lilessiugs  yet  untoM: 

I'ure  source  of  intellectual  fire! 
Fancy's  fair  buds,  the  germs  of  song, 

riKluickencd  midst  t  lie  world's  rude 
strife, 
.Shall  sweet  retirement  rcmler  strong, 

And  morning  silence  bring  lo  life. 

Then  tell  me  not  that  I  shall  grow 
Forlorn,  that  fields  and  woods  will 
cU)y ; 
From  Nature  and  her  changes  flow 

.\n  everlasting  tide  of  joy. 
I  grant  that  summer  beats  will  Iturn, 
That    keen    will    come    the    rrosty 
night; 
Kill    both  shall   jilease:   and   c!>  h   in 
turn 
Yield    Reason's  most  bupieir<;  do 
light. 


BOKER. 


43 


Build  me  a  shrino,  and  I  could  kneel 
To  rural  gods,  or  pi-ostrate  fall; 

i)id  [  not  see,  did  I  iK)t  feel, 
That  one  Gcka  r  Si'inir  governs  all. 

^  Heaven-  iieruul  that  1  may  lie 


Where  o'er  my  corse  green  branches 
wave ; 
And  those  who  from  life's  tumult  fly 
With   kindred   feelings,   press  my 
grave. 


GLEANER'S  SONG. 

Dear  Ellen,  your  tales  are  all  plenteously  stored 
With  the  joys  of  some  bride,  and  the  wealth  of  her  lord' 

Of  her  chariots  and  dresses, 

And  worldly  caresses, 
And  servants  that  liy  when  she's  waited  upon: 
But  what  can  she  boast  if  she  weds  unbeloved  ? 
Can  she  e'er  feel  the  joy  that  one  morning  I  proved, 
When  1  put  on  my  new  gown  and  waited  for  John  ? 

These  fields,  my  dear  Ellen,  I  knew  them  of  yore. 
Yet  to  me  they  ne'er  look'd  so  enchanting  before; 

The  distant  bells  ringing. 

The  birds  round  us  singing. 
For  pleasure  is  pure  when  atfection  is  won: 
They  told  me  the  troubles  and  (;ares  of  a  wife; 
But  1  loved  him;  and  that  was  the  i)ride  of  my  life, 
When  I  put  on  my  new  gown  and  waited  for  John. 

He  shouted  and  ran,  as  he  leapt  from  the  stile ; 
And  what  in  my  bosom  was  passing  the  while  ? 

For  love  knows  the  blessing 

Of  ardent  caressing. 
When  virtue  inspires  us,  and  doubts  are  all  gone. 
The  sunshine  of  Fortime  you  say  is  divine; 
True  love  and  the  sunshine  of  Nature  were  mine. 
When  1  put  on  my  new  gown  and  waited  for  John. 


George  Henry  Boker 

ODE    TO  A   MOUNrAIN   OAK. 


Proud  mountain  giant,  whose  majes- 
tic face. 

From  thy  high  watch-tower  on  the 
steadfast  I'ock, 

Looks   cahuly    o'er    the    trees    that 
throng  thy  base, 

How  long  iiast  tliou  withstood   the 
tempest's  shock  ? 

How  long  hast  Miou  looked  down  on 
yonder  vale 
bleeping  in  sun  before  thee; 


Or  bent  thy  ruffled  brow,  to  let  the 
gale 
Steer  its  white,  drifting  sails  just 
o'er  thee  ? 

Strong  link  'twixt  vanished  ages! 
Thou   hast   a   Siiye    and    reverend 
look: 
As  if  hfe's  struggle,  liiroiiuh  its 
Mirieil  staL;es. 
Were    stampi'd    on    Ihee,    as   in    u 
book. 


14 


BOKER. 


Thou  liiist  no  voice  i()  till  wliiit  tliou 

hast  st'cii. 
Save  a  low  luoanini^  in  lli\   troiililcd 

h'avfs; 
And  canst  hut  point  thy  scars,  and 

sliakc  thy  licad. 
With   soh'nin  waiiuni;,   in   the  sun- 

heam's  sliccn: 
And   sliow  how  'I'inu'  tlic  niiglitiest 

tliini,'  licreavcs, 
'iy  th<*  sere  leaves  that  rot  upoj   Ihy 

hed. 

Typi'  of  l(>ni,'-sulTcring  power! 

Even  in  my  gayest  hour. 
Thou  Mst  still  my  tongue,  and  send 

my  ^iiirit  fai-. 
To  wander  in  a  lahyrinth  of  thought; 
For    liioii    iiast     waged    with    Time 

imeeasing  war. 
Anil   out   of  jiain  hast  strength  and 

heauly  lirongiit. 
riiou   amidst    storms   and    tempests 

hadst  thy  birth, 
Cjion  these  Ideal;  and   si  antly-shel- 

tering  roeks. 
\or    mneh    save    storm    and    wratli 

hast  known  on  earlli : 
I'et  nobly  hast  thou  IjoiU;  the  liercest 

shock--. 
That    (  ii'iiimstancc     cm     pour    on 

puiiiMit   Worth. 

I   see   thee  springing',  in  Hie  vernal 

time, 
A  sajding  wcik.   from   oiii    ilie  Imr- 

len  stone. 

i'o  dance  with  .May  upon  the  monn- 

tain  ]>eak : 
I'ale    leaves    |int    foilh    to    greet    the 

genial  'lime. 
And    roots    shot    down    life's    siiste- 

nanie  to  seek. 
While    mere    existence    wa.s    a    joy 

alone  — 
<  I  thoii  uerl  hajipy  then! 
On  summer's  heat   thy  tinkling  leaf- 
lets frd. 
Kach    libn-    tonghened,    and    a   little 

r-rown 
Of  u'reen  upon  thy  modest  brow  was 

sp.vad. 
]'u  catch  I  he  rain,  ami  sliake  it  gently 

dow  n. 


lint  then  came  autumn,  when 
Thy   drv    and    tattered    le.ives   feli 
■.leail; 

Antl  sadly  on  the  gJile 
Thou    dropMst     theiu    one     by 
one  — 
Drop'dst    them,    with   a   low,   sa«i 
wail. 
On  the  cold,  unfeeling  s'  ine. 
Next  WiiUer  seizeil  thee  in  '.is  iron 
grasi). 
And  shook  thy  bruised  and  strain- 
ing form; 
Or  locked   thee    in  his  icicle's  colil 

clasp. 
And  piled  upon  thy  head  the  shorn 

ell  Mill's  ^nowy  llei 

Wert  thou  not  joyfid,  in  this  bitt«'r 

storm. 
That   the  green   honors,   which   <'rst 

decked  thy  ln'ail, 
.Sage     .\utumn's     slow     decay,    had 

ndldly  shed  ? 
Else,  with  their  weight,  they'd  given 

Ihy  ill-  increase, 
\w\  drauued  thee  helpless  from  thy 
nptoru  bed. 


Year  after  year,   in  kind  or  adverse 

fat.'.  ■ 
Thy    branches    stretched,    and     thy 

youuir  twigs  put  forth, 
Nor    ch.umed    Ihy    nature    with    the 

sea--on's  dale; 
Whi'ther   thoii    wrestled'st  with   the 

gusty  noriii. 
Or  ln-al  the  ihivinj;  rain  'j  glittering 

froth. 
Or  shook   the  snow-stonn  from  thy 

arms  of  mi^ht, 
Oi    drank   the  liali:  y    lews  Jii  simi- 

incr'-^  night;  — 
Laughing    in    sun  bine,   writhing    in 

the  siorm. 
Yet  vert  thou  still  the  same! 
.Sinnmer  spread    foith   Ihy   tower- 
ing form. 
An<l  NVinler  slreiiglhened  thy  great 

frame. 
A'  bic\  ing  Ihy  destiny 
<  >n  W'lit'-'l  Ihon  siurdily, 
Nbakin.:  I  by   ::reen   flags  in  liium]di 

and  jubili.'e! 


BOKER. 


45 


From    thy    secure    and    sheltering 

branch 
The   wild   bird    ponrs  her   glad  and 

fearless  lay, 
That,  with  the  sunbeams,  falls  upon 

the  vale. 
Adding  fresh  brightness  to  the  smile 

of  day, 
'Neath  thost^  broad  boughs  the  youth 

has  told  love's  tale; 
And  thou  hast  seen  his  hardy  feat- 
ures blanch. 
Heard  his  snared  heart  beat  like  a 

prisoned  bird, 
Fluttering    with    fear,    before    the 

fowler  laid ; 
While  his  bold  figure  shook  at  every 

word  — 
The    strong    man    trembling    at    a 

timid  maid ! 
And    thou    hast   smiled   upon   their 

children's  play: 
Seen  them  grow  old,  and  gray,  and 

pass  away. 


Heard  the  low  prattle  of  the  thought- 
less child. 
Age's  cold  wisdom,  and  the  h^ssons 

mild 
Which  patient  mothers  to  their  off- 
spring say;  — 
Yet  art  thou  still  the  same! 

Man  may  decay ; 
Race  after  race  may  pass  away ; 
The  great  may  perish,  and  their  very 
fame 
Rot  day  by  day  — 
Rot  noteless  with  their  once  inspired 
clay: 
Still,  as  at  their  I'irth. 
Thou  stretchest  thy  long  anns  above 
the  earth  — 
Type  of  unbending  Will! 
Type    of     majestic,    self-sustaining 

I'ower! 
Elate  in  sunshine,   linn   when   tem- 
pests lower, 
i**!ay  thy  calm  strength  my  wavering 
spirit  till! 
()  let  me  learn  from  thee. 
Thou  i>roud  and  steadfast  tree. 
To   bear   unnuirmuring   what    stern 
Time  may  send; 


Nor  'neath  life's  ruthless  tempests 
bend: 
But  calmly  stand  like  thee. 
Though  wrath  and  storm    hake 
me. 
Though     vernal     hopes    in    yellow 

Autunni  end, 
And   strong   in  truth  work  out  my 
destiny. 
Tyiie  of  long-suffering  Power! 
Tyi)e  of  indiciidiiig  AVill! 
Strong  in  the  temjjest's  hour, 
Uright  when  the  stonn  is  still; 
Rising  fiom  every  contest  with  an 

imbroken  heart. 
Strengthened     by     every     struggle, 
emblem    of   might   thou   art! 
Sign  of  what  man  can  compass,  spite 

of  an  adverse  state. 
Still,  from  thy  rocky  summit,  teacb 
us  to  war  with  fate! 


AWAKISG    OF   THE   I'OETICAL 
FACULTY. 

Ai.i,  day  I  heard  a  humming  in  my 

cars, 
A  buzz  of  many  voices,  and  a  throng 
Of     swanuiiig     numbers,    passing 

\s  ith  a  song 
Measured  and  stately  ns  the  rolling 

spheres'. 
I   .saw   the    sudden    light    of    lifted 

s]  tears. 
Slanted  at  once  against  some  mon 

ster  wionu; 
And  then  a  fluttering  scarf  which 

might  belong 
'IV)    .some    sweet    maiden    in    her 

morn  of  yeais. 
I  felt  the  chilling  damp  of  sunless 

glades. 
Horrid    with     gloom;    anon,    the 

breath  of  May 
Was  blown   around   me,    and   the 

lulling'  l>Iay 
Of     drippiny     fountains.      Yet     the 

lights  and  shades. 
The    waving    searfs.    the    battle's 

granil  i)arades. 
Seemed     but     vague    shadows    »f 

that  wondrous  lay. 


■40 


BOKEB. 


TO  ESCrLASn. 


Stand,  thou  groat  bulwark  of  nvMx's    .,.,,^^,   founi  or.'vory  feeling. 


Thou,  sovereign  law  by  which  uij 
fanrics  L^row  — 

slow  or 


'riiuu  ruck  of  shelter  rising  from 

the  wave, 
Solo    refuge    to    the    overwearied 

brave 
\Vho  planncJ,  arose,  and  battled  to 

be  free, 
•Vll   uiuioierred,  then   sadly  turned 

to  llioo;  — 
Saved   tlie   free   spirit   from   their 

country's  grave. 
To    rise  again,   and  animate   tlie 

slave. 
When  God  shall  ripen  all  Ihiiigs. 

l5riton.s,  ye 
Wlio  guard   the  sacred  outpost,  not 

in  vain 
Uiilil  yniu-  proud  peril  I     Freemen 

undeliJed. 
Keep  watch  ami  ward!    Let  battle- 
ments bo  piled 
Aroiuid  your  ( litifs;  fleets  marshalled, 

till  the  main 
Sink    under    them;    and    if    your 

courage  wane, 
Through  force  or  fraud,  look  west- 
ward to  your  child  I 


LOVE  SOSSETS. 

IIow  canst  thou  call  my  modest  love 

impure, 
IJeing  Ihvself  th(!  li<dy  source  of 

all  ?  ■ 
Can  ugly  darkness  from  the   fair 

sun  fall  ■' 
<  )r  nal  ure's  i'omi)act  be  so  insecme. 
I'liat    saucy    wt'cds    may    sj)rout   tip 

and  i-iidure 
Where  gentle  llowers  were  sown  ? 

'I'he  brooks  that  crawl. 
With   l.'i/.y   whis])ers.    through    tin- 

lilies'tall. 
Or    rallle     o'er    the     |p.-l,liles,      will 

allure 
With  no  feigned  sweetness,  if  llieir 

fount  be  sweet. 


Against    thyself   would'st    aim    a 

treacherous  blow, 
Slaying  thy  honor  with  tliy  own 

conceit. 


Why  shall  I  chide  the  hand  of  wil- 
ful Time 
Wlion    he   assaidts   thy   wondrous 

store  of  charms  ? 
Why  charge  the  gray-beard  with  a 

wanton  crime  '.' 
Or  strive  to  daunt  him   with   my 

shrill  alarms  •' 
Or   seek    lo    lull    him    with    a    silly 

ihyme: 
So   he,   forgetful,   pause  upon  his 

arms. 
And    leave  thy  beauties   in   their 

noble  i)rime, 
Tlio  sol<'  survivors  of  his  grievous 

harms  ? 
AlasI   my    love,    though    I'll    indeed 

bemoan 
The  fatal  ruin  of  thy  majesty; 
Yet    I'll   remember  that   to   Time 

alone 
I  owed  I  by  birth,  thy  charms'  matu- 
rity. 
Thy  crowning  love,  with  whii-h  he 

vested  mc. 
Nor  can    reclaim,  though   all   the 

?-est  be  llown. 

In  this  dce|i  hush  and  quiet  of  tny 

soul. 

When  life  runs  low,  and  all   my 

senses  stay 
Their  <lailv  riot;  when  mv  wearied 

••lay 
Uesigns  its  functions,  and.  without 

control 
Of  seKish  ]iassion,  my  e^ssential  whole 
Kises  in  pmity,  to  make  survey 
Of  those  poor  deeds  that  wear  my 

<la\  <  away; 
When    in   my  car  I   hear  the  dis- 

I  inl  toll' 


So  ihon,   the  sun   wben<°<!  all   my    ()f  belN  tiiat   uuuinur  of  my  coming 
light  doth  How—  I  knell, 


BOKER. 


47 


And  all  things  seem  a  show  and 

mockery  — 
Life,  and  life's  actions,  noise  and 
'    vanity; 
I  ask  my  mournful  heart  if  it  can  tell 
If  all  be  truth  which  I  protest  to 

thee: 
And  my  heart  answers,  solemnly, 
'"Tiswell." 


I  HAVE  been  mounted  on  life's  top- 
most wave. 

Until  my  forehead  kissed  the  daz- 
zling cloud  ; 

I  have  been  dashed   beneath  the 
murky  shroud 

That  yawns    between  the  watery 
crests.     I  rave. 
Sometimes,     like     cursed     Orestes; 
sometimes  lave 

My  limbs  in  dews  of  asphodel;  or, 
bowed 

With  torrid  heat,  I  moan  to  heaven 
aloud, 

Or  shrink  with  Winter  in  his  icy 
cave. 
Now  peace  broods  over  me ;  now  sav- 
age rage 

Spurns  me  across  the  world.     Nor 
am  I  free 

From    nightly  visions,   when   the 
pictured  pauo 
Of  sleep  unfolds  its  varied  leaves  to 
mo. 

('hanging  as  often  as   the   mimic 
stage ;  — 
And  all  this,  lady,  through  my  love 
for  thee ! 


So.MKTiMKs.  ill  hitter  faiii-y,  I  bewail 

This  spell  of  love,   and   wish   the 
cause  removed; 

Wish  I  had  never  seen,  or,  seeing, 
not  loved 

So  utterly  that  passion  should  pre- 
vail 
O'er    self-regard,   and    thoughts    of 
thee  assail 

Those    inmost    liariiers   which    so 
long  have  proved 

Uncoii(|uerable,  when  such  defence 
behoved. 


But,    ah!    my    treacherous    heart 

doth  ever  fail 
To  ratify  the  sentence  of  my  mind; 
For  when  conviction  strikes  me  to 

the  core, 
1  swear  1  love  thee  fondlier  than 

before ; 
And  were  I  now  all  free  and  uncon- 

lined, 
Loose  as  the  action  of  the  shore 

less  wind. 
My  slavish  heart  would  sigh   for 

bonds  once  more. 


Ah!    let    me  live    on  memories  of 

old,— 
The  precious  relics  I  have  set  asjde 
From  life's  poor  venture;  things 

that  yet  abide 
My  ill-paid  labor,  shining,  like  pure 

gold, 
xVmid  the  dross  of   cheated    hopes 

whose  hold 
Dropped   at   the  touch  of  action. 

Let  me  glide 
Down    the    smooth    past,    review 

that  day  of  pride 
When    each   to   each   our   niutiial 

passion  told — 
When  love  grew  frenzy  in  thy  l>laz- 

ing  eye. 
Fear  slione  heroic,  caution  (|iiaile(l 

before 
My    hot,    resistless   kisses — when 

we  bore 
Time,    conscience,     destiny,    down, 

down  for  aye. 
Beneath  victorious  love,  and  thoi: 

didst  cry, 
"Strike,   (Jod  !   life's   cup  is  run 

niiig  o'er  ami  o'er  " 


hincR  ran  ./  soi.nii:!:. 

Ci.osK  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeinan. 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun. 

Hand  of  man.  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow! 
What  cares  he  '.'  he  jannol  know 
I<av  him  low! 


4S 


BONAR. 


As  man  may,  he  foujibf  his  (is:ht, 

Provfil  liis  truth  by  his  nuhavor; 
Let  him  sleej)  in  soli'iim  iiij^hl, 
Sloep  forever,  and  ton  ver. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  th-,'  clover  or  the  snow! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  eaniiot  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

Fold  him  in  his  eoiintry's  stars, 
Roll   the   drum   and    lire   flu-   vol- 
ley! 

What  to  him  are  all  our  wars. 

What  hul  death-beiuocking  folly  ? 


Lay  him  low.  lay  him  low, 
In  the  elover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  lie  ?  he  cannot  know 
Lay  him  low! 

Leave  him  to  (iod's  walehini;  eye. 
Trust  him  to  tiie  hand  that  made 
him. 
Mortal  love  weejis  idly  by: 
(Jod  alone  has  jiower  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  elover  or  ilie  snow  I 
What  iMres  he  i*  In- canuol  know" 
Lay  him  low! 


HORATIUS    BONAR. 


A  LITTI.i:   Will  I.E. 

Br.YONii  the  smiling  ami  the  weei)inj; 

1  shall  be  soon; 

Beyond  the  waking  am!  the  sleeping, 

IJeyoiiil  the  sowini,'  and  I  he  reaiiing, 

1  shall  bi'  soon. 

Lure,  rext,  and  lioiuc  ! 

Sii'ci't  /io])i' ! 

Lnril.  Iiirnj  tml.  hitl  raiin  . 

Beyond  the  blnomin',^  and  the  fadini; 

I  shall  he  -oom; 

111  yoiid  the  siiiniii'4  ami  the  shailinvj, 

Jieyond  till-  hctpiim  and  the  dreadim,'. 

I  shall  be  s(H>n, 

LoVl\  rrsl,  illltl  htillir  ! 

Sii'i'rl  fin]>i' ! 

.\oril,  liin'n  not,  hul  mine. 

B<'Von     ;he  risin-.:  ;ind  the  setlini; 

I  sh.ill  be  xoon. 

Heyonil  tin-  ealmin':  ami  the  freltim,', 

Iteyond  rriiien\beriii_' and  foru'elling. 

I  shall  lie  soon. 

Li>ri\  rixl ,  iiuil  Inniic  .' 

.Sini'i't  hupc  ! 

Litrd,  lurry  not,  huf  nnne. 

Beyond  the  ^'al  herinKand  I  In-  ht  row  ing 

I  «liidl  lie  <io«>n; 

K.  yund  1 1 bbin^  and  the  tlowim;, 

'!  vond  llii'  'ominu  and  the  '.:oin;,;t 

i  shall  be  soon. 


Lure,  rest,  ami  home! 

Sirpvt  liDfn- ! 

Lord,  larnj  not,  tnit  come. 

Beyond  the  i>arlim;and  the  meeting 

1  shall  b<-  soon; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  jmlse's  fever-beating, 
1  shall  be  .soon. 
Love,  rtst,  and  hinnv  ! 
Sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tnrri/  not,  Init  ronir. 

IJeyonil  the  frosi -chain  and  the  fever 

1  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  (he  rock-waste  and  the  river. 
Beyond  the  (-ver  and  the  never, 
1  shall  be  .soon. 
Lore,  ?■c.•<^  iiml  hoinv  I 
Sv^eel  lio/ie  .' 
1,1, nl.  lurry  not,  tnil  cunie. 


rill  issF.n  (Ai.sf. 

(Ai.M  me,  my  (Jod.  and  keejime  calm. 

While  these  hot  breezes  blow  ; 
Be  like  the  iii^hl-dew's  <<>oIinL;  bahn 

l'|ion  earth's  fevered  hidw. 

(  aim  mi',  my  <  iod,  and  ke.ii  me  calm. 

,S()fl  re-^liiig  no  ili\  lireasi ; 
.Soothe  me  will)  holy  hymn  and  ps-ihii 

,\nd  bid  my  sjiiri'  re^t. 


BOSTWWK. 


49 


Calm    me,    ray    God,  and    keep   me 
calm, 

Let  thine  outstretrhfed  wing 
]!(>  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 

Beside  her  desert  spring. 

Yes,  keep  me  cahn,  though  loud  and 
ruile. 

Th(>  sounds  my  ear  that  greet, 
Calm  in  the  closet's  solitude, 

Calm  in  the  bustling  street; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health. 

Calm  in  my  hour  of  juiin, 
Calm  ill  my  poverty  or  wealth. 

Calm  in  my  loss  or  gain; 


f 'aim  in  the  suffiTarico  of  wrong, 
Like  lliiii  who  bore  my  shame. 

Calm   mid   Ihc  threatening,  taunting 
throng. 
Who  hate  thy  holy  n<amc; 

Calm   when   the   great  world's  news 
with  power 

My  listening  spirit  stir; 
Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 

E'er  find  too  fond  an  ear; 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star 
Which  storms  assail  in  vain. 

Moving  unruflled  through  earth's  war, 
The  eternal  calm  to  gain. 


Helen   Barron   Bostwick. 

URVASI. 


"Tis  a  story  told  by  Kalidasa, — 

Hindoo  poet— in  melodious  rhyme, 
How   with  train   of  maidens,  young 
Urs'asi 
Came  to  keep  great  Indra's  festal 
time. 

'T  was  her  part  in  worshipful  confes- 
sion 
Df  t  he  god-name  on  that  sacred  day. 
Walking  flower-crowned  in  the  long 
proi'cssion, 
"  1  love  I'ura-shotta-ma"  to  say. 

I'ure  as  snow  on  Himalayan  langi's. 
Heaven-descended,  soon  to  heaven 
withdrawn. 
Fairer  tiian   tlie  moon-flower  (jf  th'' 
( ianges. 
Was  I'rvasi,  Daughter  of  thf  Daw  n. 

But    it    haiipened    that     the    gniiic 
maiden 
Loved    one    Puru-avas,  —  fateful 
name  I  — 
And  her  ln-art,  with  its  sweet  secret 
laden. 
Faltered   wlu'U  her   tini"  of    utliT 
ancc  <amc. 


"I  love"  —  then  she  stopped,   and 
people  wondered ; 
"1   love" — she    nnist   guard    her 
secret  well ; 
Then   from   sweetest   lijis   that   tver 
blundenul, 
"  I  love  Puru-avas,"  trembling  fell. 

Ah,  what  terror  seized  on  poor  I'r- 
vasi! 
Misty  grew  the  violets  of  her  eyes, 
And  her  form  bent  like  a  broki-n  daist 
WhiU'  around  her  roM>  llif  mocking 
cries. 

Ihil    great    liidra   said.    "  Thf   maid 
shall  marry 
Him   whose  image  in  her  faithful 
heart 
She  so  near  to  that  of  (iod  doth  carry 
Scarce    her    lips    can    keep    tbeii 
names  apart." 

Call  ii  then  not   weakness  or  disscm 
bling 
If.    in    striving   llf   bii.;h    nanir   Ic: 
reach. 
Through  our  voices  runs  lh<'  ii-ndcr 
trembling 
Of  an   carthlv    name   too  dear   fcr 

>1" ^''    ■ 


50 


BOTTA—  liUUUDlLLON. 


Ever  dwells  the  lesser  in  the  fp-eat- 

Know  he  holds  Love's  simplest  stani 

er; 

nuMiui;  sweeter 

In  God's  love  the  human:   we  hv 

Than  coiil  phnise  of  wonlv  Thar 

tliese 

ISCCS. 

Anna   Lynch   Botta. 


TJTF.  LESSOX  OF  TllK  liEF.. 

The  honey-bee  that  wanders  all  day 

long 
The  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  gar- 
den o'er, 
To    gather    in    his    fragrant    winter 

ston-; 
Iluniniing  \n  calm  fonteiit  his  (|uii't 

song, 
Seeks   not   alone  the  rose's  giowinu 

breast, 
Tin-  lily's  dainty  enp,  the  violet's  lips. 
Hut  from  all  rank  and  noxious  weeds 

he  sips, 
The  single  drop  of  sweetness  closely 

])ressed 
Within  the  poison  chalice.     Thus,  if 

we. 
Si-ek  only   to  draw   forth  the  hiddrii 

sweet 
In  all  the  varifd  human   llowcrs  we 

mt'ct 
In  the  widi-  garden  of  humanity, 
And.  like  thf  bee,  if  home  the  sjtoil 

wr  bear. 
Hived  in  our  hearts,  it   turns  to  wrr- 

tiir  there. 


LOVE. 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend  I  not  seeking 
love. 
A  memlicant  that  with  imploring 

eye 
And  outstretched  liand  asks  of  tlie 
passers-by 
The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may 

move: 
For  such  poor  love,  tojtity  near  allied. 
Thy  generous  si)iril  may  not  stoop 
and  wait. 
A   suppliant   whose   i)rayer   may   be 
denied  |gate: 

Like  a  spmned  beggar's  at  a  palaee- 
liut  thy  heart's  alllnence  lavish  un- 
controlled. — 
The   large.ss   of   thy  love  give  full 
and  fre«', 
.Vs  monarehs  in  their  progress  scatter 
gold: 
And  be  thy  heart  like  the  exliausl- 
less  .sea. 
That  must   iLs  wealll;   of  eloud   an. I 

dew  bestow, 
Tliough  tributary  .streams  or  eblt  or 
'  tlow. 


Francis  W.    Bourdillon. 


in:  hi: 

TlIK  night  has  a  Ihousaiiil  eyes, 

And  the  day  has  but  one: 
Vet  llie  \\^\\\  of  Ibe  bright  world  dies 

Willi  tlie  dying  sun. 

The  IiiJIhI   ban  a  IjiuUsaiHl  eyi's, 

.\nil  ilie  lie:ii't  liMl  one; 
Vet  I  lie  liulil  <)l  a  wliole  life  die.-* 

Wb.  1.  :;^  .I..V  is  <|c 


l.ttVE'S  l!F]\.ilin. 

Fon  Love  I  labored  all  Ibe  ilay. 
Tlirou^b  morning  chill  and  ndddav 

heal. 

For  surely  uilli  Ibe  eveninn  gray, 
I  Iboiiulil.  Love's  guerdon  shall  ln' 

SW  eel. 

Atcvenliile,  with  weary  limb. 
I  broiiu'lil  iiiv  l.'ibors  lo  Ibe  spot 


BOWLES. 


51 


Where  Love  had  hid  me  conic  to  him; 
Thither  I  came,  butfoimd  him  not. 

For  he  with  idle  folks  had  gone 
To  danee  the  hours  of  night  away; 

And  1  thJit  toUetl  was  left  alonj% 
Too  weary  now  to  dance  or  play. 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

SwEETEU  than  voices  in  the  scented 

hay, 
Or  laughing  children  gleaning  ears 

that  stray, 


Or  Christmas  songs  that  shake  the 

snows  above. 
Is  the   first  cuckoo,  when  he  comes 

with  love. 


Sadder  than  birds  in  sunless  summer 

eves, 
Or  drip  of  rain-drops  on  the  falleji 

leaves. 
Or  wail  of  wintry  waves  on  frozen 

shore, 
Is  spring  that  comes,  but  brings  us 

love  no  more. 


William   Lisle   Bowles. 


TO  TIME. 

O  Time!  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand 

to  lay 
Softest    on    sorrow's    wound,    and 

slowly  thence  — 
Lulling  to  sad   repose   the  weai^ 

sense  — 
The  faint  pang  stealest,  unperceived 

away; 
On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last. 
And   think    when  thou  hast  dried 

the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul 

hcl.l  dear, 
i  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 
And  inect  life's  peaceful  evening  with 

a  smile  — 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  depart- 
ing hour,  [shower, 
.Sin;^s  in  the  sunbeam  of  the  transient 
Forgetful,  Ihough  its  wings  are  wet 

the  while': 
Vet,  ah  I  how  nuich  must  that  poor 

heart  endure 
Which   hoix's   from   thee,   and   thee 

aloue,  a  cui"e! 


THE   a  RE  EX  WOOD. 

On !  when  'tis  summer  weather. 
And    the    yellow    bee,    with    fairy 
sound, 
The  waters  clear  is  humming  round. 
And  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen, 
And  the  leaves  are  waving  green, — 
Oh!  then  'tis  sweet. 
In  some  retreat, 
To  hear  the  murinuring  dove, 
\\"\i\\  those  whom  on  earlli  alone  we 

love, 
And  to  wind  through  the  greenwood 
together. 

But  when  't  is  winter  weather, 
And  crosses  grieve. 
And  fiiends  deceive, 
And  rain  and  sleet 
'i'he  lattice  beat, — 
Oh!  then  't  is  sweet. 
To  sit  and  sing 

Of   the   friends    with    whom,   in  the 
days  of  Sjiring, 

We   roamed  through  the  greenwood 
together. 


{>2 


iiiiAiKirr. 


Ill:  Al  SARD. 


Anna   C.    Brackett. 

I\   (iAUhlKLD'S    DASCKI!. 

Is  it  not  pussililc  ili;it  all  llic  l<>v«' 

From  all  ilii'st-  inillioii  lioaris,  wliitli  lnoalliK'ss  turas 

To  one  huslicd  room  wIutc  silent  loolslejts  move, 

May  have  some  power  on  life  tlial  IVi  lily  Ixnns ".' 

Mnst  it  not  have  bome  power  in  some  strange  way, 

.Some  strange,  wise  way,  heyoiiil  onr  lanijK'd  ken. 

When  far  and  wide,  from  sea  to  sea  to-day. 

Even  in  qniet  (ields.  hard-handed  men 

Pause  in  their  toil  to  ask  the  passer-by 

"  What  news'.'"  and  then.  '"  We  cannot  spare  liira  yet!" 

Surely  no  tiile  ean  jxiweiless  rise  so  hiiih. 

Bear  on,  hrave  heart  I     The  land  tlot"^  not  forget. 

Thou  yet  shalt  he  upborne  to  life  and  strength  again 

On  this  flood-tide  of  love  of  millions  of  brav*-  men. 


Mary   E.   Bradley. 


Thkkk  was  a  time  when  death  ami  i 
Mel  faee  to  faee  toueiher: 

I  was  but  vouul;  indeed  to  die, 
And  il  was  snnnnei-  weather; 

One  happy  year  a  wedded  wife, 

Yet  1  was  slipping  out  of  life. 

Von  km'll  beside  nie,  and  I  heard. 
As  from  some  far-otT  disianee. 

A  bitter  ery  that  dindy  stirifd 
My  s(jnl  to  make  resistanee. 


IIF.YOSIJ    I:E(ALL. 

You   thought    me   dead:    yon   ealle 

my  name. 
And  baek  from  Death  il>elf  I  eann  . 


Hut  oh  I  that  you  had  made  no  sign. 

That  I  had  heard  no  crying  ! 
For  now  the  yearning  voice  is  mine, 

.\nd  there  is  nc  ri'plying: 
Death  never  could  so  cru«'l  be 
As  Lift — and  you  —  liave  prove<l  to 
ind 


John   G.  C.  Brainard. 


ErrniAi.AMii  M. 

1  s.\w  two  clouds  al  morning. 

Tinged  by  llie  rising  sun. 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

.\nd  ndngled  into  one;  |b|est. 

1    thought   that    morning  cloud   was 
It  mo\ed  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

i  siiw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting. 

And  join  Ibeii  coin-ewilh  sjl.-nl  force. 
In  iM-ace  ea<li  other  greeting; 


C^alm  was  (heir  course  through  banks 

of  1,'leen, 

While    dimjiliug    eddies    played     be- 
tween. 

Such  be  vonr  i;eull<'  motion. 

Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  l>eal  : 
Like  sunnners  beam,   and  siunnier's 
streani. 
Float  on.  In  joy,  to  meet 
A    calmer   sea.    wlieie   storms    shall 
ccilse  — 

A  purer  sky,  when-  all  is  peace. 


BRANCH—  DlluyTE. 


fiS 


Mary   Bolles   Branch 

THE   PET/!lFI/:/>  F/:/:x. 


In  a  valley,  cenlurics  ago, 
Grew  H  little  fern-leaf,  green  and 

.slender, 
Veining  delicate  and  fibres  lender; 
Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down 

so  low 
Ru;>'lie.s  tad,   and  uioss,  and  grass 

grew  lound  it. 
Playful    sunbeams  darted    in   and 

found  it. 
Drops   of  dew   stole   in  by  night, 

and  crowned  it, 
lint  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that 

way ; 
Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holi- 
day. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

.Stately   forests  waved  their  giant 
branches, 

Moimtains  hurled  their  snowy  ava- 
lanches. 
Mammoth    creatures  stalked  across 
the  plain ; 

Nature  revelled  in  grand  mysl cries; 

But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these. 

Did  not  nuud)er  with  tln'  hills  and 
trees. 

Only    arew    and    waved    its    wild 
sweet  way. 

No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 


Karth,    one    time,    put    on    a    frolic 

mood. 
Heaved  the  rocks  and  changed  the 

mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,  Strong  currents  of  the 

ocean ; 
Moved    the    plain    and    shook     the 

haughty  wood, 
Crushed    the    little    form   in   soft 

moist  clay. 
Covered  il,  and  hid  it  safe  away, 
O,  the  long,   long  centuries  since 

that  day  I 
O,  the  agony,  O,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was 

lost ! 

I'seless  !       Lost  1       There    came    a 

thoughtful  man 
Seaiching  Nature's  secrets,  far  and 

deep; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 
He    v.ithdrew    a   stone,   o'er   which 

there  ran 
Fairy  pencillings,  a  (|uainl  design. 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibres  clear  and 

(inc. 
.\n(l   the  fern's  life  lay   in   every 

line  ! 
So,  1  think,  God  hides  some  souls 

away, 
Sweetly  to  surprise  us  the  last  day. 


Anne   Bronte. 


/F   nils   HE    ALE. 

OGoi>!  if  this  inderd  be  all 

That  life  can  show  to  me; 
If  on  my  aching  Ijiow  may  fall 

No  freshening  dew  from  'riiec;  — 
If  with  no  Itrighler  light  than  Ihis 

The  l:!mp  of  Hoi)e  may  ijlow, 
-Vnd  1  may  only  dream  of  bliss, 

.\nd  wake  to  weary  woe!  — 
It  t'riendshii)'s  solace  musl  decay 

When  other  joys  are  gone. 


.\iid  love  musl  kee]>  so  far  away. 

While  1  go  wandering  on, — 
Wandering  and  toiliu'j:  wilhout  gain, 

'I'hc  slave  of  others'  will, 
Willi  con.sianl  care  and  fre<|Ucnl  pain, 

Desjiised,  forgotten  slill. 
(irievinn  lo  look  on  \  ice  anil  sin. 

Yet  i)owerless  lo  (|Uell 
The  silenl  cunciil  fiom  within. 

The  outward  torrent's  swell; 
While  all  the  good  J  would  imparl 

The  feelings  1  would  share, 


54 


BRONTt:. 


Arc  driven  backward  to  my  heart 
And  tnrncd  to  wormwood  there;' — 

It  iluiids  must  cvci-  keep  from  sij;ht 
The  ulories  of  the  sun. 

And  1  must  suffer  winter's  hliiiht 


Kre  summer  is  hpfjun;  — 
If  hfe  must  lie  so  full  of  care, 

'riicn  call  nic  soon  to  'I'hee! 
Or  i;i\c  mc  sircnu'lh  enough  to  bear 

My  load  of  MiiM'ry. 


Charlotte   Bronte. 


LIFE    WILL    HE    COSE    EltE    I 
HAVE    LIVED. 

Lif-K  will  he  {ione  ere  1  liave  hved; 

Where  now  is  life's  lirst  prime'.' 
I've  worked  and  sludied,  longed  and 
i;riesed 

Through  all  that  busy  time. 


To  toil,  to  think,  to  long,  to  grieve  — 

Is  such  my  future  fate  '.' 
'i'he  morn  was  ilreary.  must  the  eve 

J5e  also  desolate  '.' 
Well,  such  a  life  at  le.ist  makes  Deatli 

A  welcome,  wished-for  friend; 
Tlienaid  me,  Keason,  Patience,  Faith, 

To  -uUrl-  tn  the  end. 


Emily   Bront^. 


LAST  LISES. 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No   trendiler  in   the  world's  slorni- 
troui)le(l  sidiere: 
1  see  heaven's  glories  shine. 
And   Faith  shines  e(|Ual,  arming  me 
from  fi'ar. 

f)  (ioil  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever  jiresenl  Deity  ! 

Life  —  that  in  me  lias  rest. 
As    I  —  imdyiiig    Lif< — have  jiower 
in  thee  I 

Vain  are  the  thousand  ereeds 

That  mctve  men's  heail-s;  unutterably 

vain 

Worthh'ss  as  witliiied  weeds, 

Or  idlest    froth   amid    the   boundless 

main. 

To  waketi  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  liy  thine  inlinity; 

.So  snrciy  anchored  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immoitaliis. 

With  wide-end)raclng  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 


Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dis.solves,  creates, 
and  rears. 

Though    earth    and    man     were 
gone, 
.Vnd  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be. 

And  Thou  weit  left  alone. 
Every  e.\isteiice  would  e.\isl  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that   his  might  could  ren- 
der \oid : 
Thou  —  Thou     art      P.eing     and 
Breath. 
.\ud   what   Thou   art    may   ne\er  In; 
destroyed. 


LEVEMIti;  IXi-E. 

Col. I)  in  the  earth  —  and  the  deep 
snow  |)iled  above  thee. 

Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  tin-  dreary 
gravel  I  thee, 

Ila\«'  I  forgot,  my  only  l,o\e,  to  love 

."seNcred  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing 
wav«f '.' 


BROOKS. 


55 


Xovv,  wlieii  alone,  do  my  thoughts 
no  longer  hover 

Over  the  mountains,  on  that  north- 
ern shore, 

Kesting 'their  wings  where  heath  and 
fern-leaves  cover 

'I'liy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  '? 

Cold  in  the  earth  —  and  fifteen  wild 

Decembers, 
From  these  brown  hills,  have  melted 

into  spring: 
Faithfid,   indeed,   is  ihe  spirit   that 

remembers  jferingl 

After  such  years  of  change  and  suf- 

Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,   if  I 

forget  thee. 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me 

along; 
Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset 

me. 
Hopes  which  obsciu'e,  but  cannot  do 

thee  wrong! 

No  later  light  has  lightened  up  my 

heaven. 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shone  for 

me; 


All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life 

was  given,  |thee 

All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with 

But,  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams 

had  perished, 
And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to 

destroy ; 
Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could 

be  cherished, 
Strengthened,  and   fed  without  the 

aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless 
passion  — 

Weaned  my  yoimg  soul  from  yearn- 
ing after  thine; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to 
hasten  |mine. 

Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than 

And.  even  yet,  1  dare  not  let  it  lan- 
guish. 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  raptu- 
rous pain ; 

Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest 
anguish. 

How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world 
again  ? 


Maria  Gowen  Brooks. 


[From  Zophiel.] 
SONG   OF  EGLA. 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying; 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing; 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying; 
'■Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness! 

Thou,  to  whom  1  love  to  hearken. 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darkt'u; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me. 
Say  thou'rt  true,  and  Til  l)elieve  thee; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent. 
Let  me  thiidv  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure; 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasur,  ; 


Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling,  — 
Bring  no  t:eni  in  lusti-e  sparkling: 
Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me, 
I  would  only  look  on  thee! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling. 

Ecstasy,  but  in  revealing; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deeji  sensation. 

Hapture  in  participation; 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still!   Ah!  come  and  bless  me! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee. 

Once  in  caution.  I  could  tly  thee; 

Xow,  1  nothing  could  deny  thee. 
In  a  look  if  dei'th  there  be, 
Come,  and  1  will  gaze  on  thee! 


56 


imnH'^s. 


THE  M. Hi  HI  AGE  OE  DESI'MIL 

TiiK  banl  has  sung,  God  iu'Vit  formed 
a  soul  I  meet 

Without  its  own  peculiar  male,  to 
Its    waudcriui,'    half,   when    ripe   lo 
t  Town  the  whole 
liright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly, 
most  complete! 
But   tlKiusand  evil   things  there  are 
that  hate  | impede, 

To  look  on  hajipiness;  these  hurt. 
And.  ie.igutil   with   time,  space,  lir- 
ruui^lanr.',  and  fate. 
Kee]i  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to 
pine  and  pant  and  bleed. 


And    as    the   tlove   to    far    I'almvra 
Hying. 
From  where  her  native  founts  of 
Aniii)cli  beam. 
Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting, 
sighing. 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter 
streau),  — 
So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  des- 
ert faring. 
Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  im- 
found,  un<|UatTed, 
Suffers,    recoils, —  ilien.    thirsty   and 
tlespairing 
Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips 
the  nearest  ilraught. 


Frances   Brown. 


LOHiiES. 


I'l'iiN  the  white  sea  sand 
There  sat  a  pilgrim  baud. 
'I'elling  the  losses  that  their  lives  hail 
known; 
Whilf  evening  waned  away  | 

From  bi'cezy  ditT  and  bay.  ' 

And  the  strong  tiile  w<nt  out  with  ! 
weary  moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

C)f  a  fair  frf  ight"d  ship. 
With  all   his  household    to  the  d(>ep 
g<jne  down ; 

Hut  one  had  wilder  woe  — 

For  a  fair  fact-,  lony  ago     |lown. 
Lo^t  in  the  darker  ilepihs  of  a  great 

Thi-re  were  who  mourned  their 

yoiuh 
With  a  most  loving  ruth. 
For  its  brave    bopfs   .nid    miiuories 

ever  gP'.-ii ; 
Ami  one  upon  llie  west 
Turned    ail   eye   that    woidd   not 

rest . 
For  far-off  hills  wlH'ieou  its  joy  bad 

been. 


."^ome  talked  of  vanisheil  gold. 
Some  of  proud  honors  told. 
Some   spake   of    friends    that    were 
their  trust  no  more; 
.\ud  one  of  a  green  grave 
Meside  a  fori  ign  wave. 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the 
shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done. 
There  S]):ii<e  among  tli'-m  one. 
A  stranger,  seenung  from  all  sorrow 
free: 
".Sad  losses  have  yt;  met. 
I5ut  mine  i-  heaviei  yet : 
For    a    believing    lu'art    hath    gone 
from  III" 


"  .\lasl"  these  pilgrims  said. 
•■  For  the  living  and  the  <lead  — 
For  foil  iiin-'s  eriii'liy.   for  love's  sure 
cross. 
For    the    wrecks    of    laud    and 

si-a : 
Hut.  bowe'cr  it  ranu-  to  tln-e. 
Thine,    sir.inger.    is   life's   last    hikI 
heaviest  loss." 


BLOWS  I'J.L. 


f)7 


Henry   Howard    Brownell 

THE   ItETUliX   OF  KANE. 


Toll,  lower  anci  minster,  toll 
O'er  the  oily's  ebb  and  flow  I 

Roll,  nmlUed  drum,  still  roll 
Willi  solemn  beat  and  slow  !  — 

A  brav"'  and  a  splendid  soul 
Ilalli  gone  —  wlure  all  shall  go. 

Dimmer,  in  gloom  and  dark. 
Waned  ilie  taper,  day  by  day. 

And  a  nation  watched  the  spark. 
Till  its  lluttering  died  away. 

V/as  its  tlame  so  strong  and  calm 
Throngli  the  dismal  years  of  ice 

To  die  "mid  the  orange  and  the  palm 
And  the  aiis  of  Paiadisc? 

Over  that  simple  bier 

While  the  iianghty  Spaniard  bows, 
Grief  may  join  in  the  geneious  tear, 

And  Vengeance  forgei  her  vows. 

Ay,  honor  the  wasted  form 
That  a  noble  spirit  wore  — 

I.ightly  it  i)resses  on  the  warm 
Spiing  sod  of  its  parent  shore; 

Hunger  and  darkness,  cold  and  storm 
Never  shall  harm  it  more. 

No  more  of  travel  and  toil, 

Of  tropic  or  arctic  wild: 
fJently.  O  Mother  Soil. 

Take  thy  worn  and  wearied  child. 

Lay  him  —  the  tender  and  true  — 
To  rest  witli  such  who  are  gone, 

Each  chief  of  the  valiant  crew 

Thai  died  as  our  own  hath  d(me  — 

Let  him  rest  with  stout  Sir  Ilugli. 
Sir  Humphrey,  and  good  Sir  .lohn. 

And  let  grief  be  far  remote. 
As   we   march  from   the  place   of 
death. 
To  the  blithest  note  of  the  fife's  clear 
throat. 
And  the  bugle's  cheeriest  breath. 


lioU,  stirring  dium,  still  lolll 

Not  a  sigh  —  not  a  sound  of  woe, 

That  a  grand  and  glorious  soul 

Hath  gone   where  the  brave  must 
go. 


ALL    TOGETHE... 

Old  friends  and  dear!  it  were  ungen- 
tle rhyme. 
If   1   should  ((uestion  of  youi'  true 
hearts,  whether  |tinie. 

Ye  have  forgot  Umi  that  far,  pleasant 
The  good  old  time  when  we  were 
all  together. 

Our  limbs  were  lusty  and  onr  souls 

sublime  ; 

We  never  heeded  cold  and  winter 

weather,  |time. 

Nor  sun  nor  tiavel,   in  that  cheery 

The  brave  old  time  when  we  were 

all  together. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  tread  the  mountain 
thyme. 
Sweet  was  the  pure  and  piny  moun- 
tain ether, 
And  pleasant  all;  but  this  was  in  the 
time. 
The  good  old  time  when  we  were 
all  together. 

Since  then  I've  strayed  through  many 
a  fitful  clime, 
(Tossed    on    the    wind    of   fortune 
like  a  featlier. ) 
And  chanced  with  rare  good  fellows 
in  mv  lime  — 
Hut  ne'er  tlu-  time   that  wt"  have 
known  together. 

Hut  none  like  those  brave  hearts  (for 
now  I  clind) 
Cray    hills    idun.-.   or    thread    lb; 
lonely  heather.) 
That  walked  beside  me  in  theanci<ut 
time. 
The  good   old   tinu-  when  we  wvn.- 
all  together 


5« 


BROWNE  LL. 


Long  since,  we  parted  in  our  careless 
lirinic, 
Like  .summer  birds  no  June  shall 
hasten  hither; 
No  more  to  meet  as  in  that  men  y 
time, 
The  sweet  spring-time  that  shone 
on  all  together. 

Some,  to  the  fevered  city's  toil  and 
grime, 
And   some  o'er  distant  seas,  and 
some  —  ah!  wliitlier? 
Nay.  Wf  shall  never  meet  as  in  the 
time, 
'i'lic  d<ar  old  time  when  we  were 
all  together. 

Anil    sorni>  —  above    their    heads,  in 
wind  and  rime. 
Year  after  year,  the  grasses  wave 
and  willier  : 
Aye.  we  sliall  meet  I  —  'tis  but  a  little 
time. 
And  all  sliall  lie  with  foldetl  hands 
logelher. 

And  if,  beyond  tlie  sjiliere  of  doubt 
anri  erime. 
Lie  i>urer  lantis  —  ali  I  let  our  steps 
be  thither; 
'I'liat.  done  Willi  earthly  change  and 
earl  lily  time. 
In  (Jod's  g()(»d  lim«!  we  may  be  all 
together. 


MinxmUT-  A   LAMENT. 
I>()  the  (lead  carry  their  cares 

Like  us  l<>  llie"l.lace  of  rest  ? 
Tbe  long,  long  niglil  —  is  it  theirs, 

Weary  to  bniiii  and  breast? 
Ail,  that  I  knew  how  it  fares 

With  One  Ibal  I  Inved  the  best. 

I  lie  alone  in  the  bouse. 

Iliiw     llie     wretched     N'orlb-wind 
nives! 
I  listen,  and  tllillk  of  those 

O'er    wboHc    be.id.H     the    Wei     gniSH 
W.i\es  — 
Do  Ibey  bi'ar  Ihe  witiil  that  blows, 
.\nd  ibe  r.ijn  on  tbeirloiiely  graves? 


Heads  that  !  helped  to  lay 

On  the  pillow  that  lasts  for  aye. 
It  is  but  a  little  way 

To  the  dreary  hill  where  they  lie- 
No  bed  but  the  cold,  cold  clay  — 
No  roof  but  the  stormy  sky. 

Cruel  the  thought  and  vain! 

They've  now  nothing  more  to  bear- 
Done  with  sickness  and  pain. 

Done  with  trouble  and  care  — 
IJut  I  hear  tbe  wind  and  the  rain, 

And  still  1  think  of  them  there. 

Ah,  couldst  thou  come  to  me, 
IJird  that  I  loved  the  best! 

That  !  knew  it  was  well  with  thee- 
\Vil<l  ami  weary  North-West! 

Wail  in  chimney  and  tree  — 
Leave  the  dead  to  their  rest. 


THE   ADIKC. 

SWKKT  Falsehoods,  fare  ye  well! 
That  may  not  longer  dwell 
In  this  fond  iieart,(lear  paramours  of 
Youth! 
A  cold,  unloving  bride 
Is  ever  at  my  side  — 
Yet    who    so    pure,    so   beaut ifid    as 
'I'riilh? 

Long  hath  she  sought  my  side. 
And  would  not  be  denied, 
Till,  all  perforce,  slie  won  my  spirL 
o'er  — 
And  though  her  glances  be 
Ibil  hard  and  stern  to  me. 
At  every  step    |    love   her  more  and 
more. 


AI.OSF. 


\  SAD  old  bouse  by  the  sea. 

Were  we  liappy.  I  ;ind  thou, 
In  llie  days  Ibal  ii^eil  lo  be  ? 

There  is  not  bin;;  left  me  now 

Ibil  to  lie.  and  lliiiik  of  thee 
Willi  foldeil  hands  on  my  lireu-st, 

.\n<l  lisl  lo  llie  weary  sea 
Nibbing  ilsi'lf  lo  rest. 


BROWN  ELL. 


59 


LONG   AGO. 

Whkx  at  eve  I  sit  alone. 
Thinking  on  the  Past  and  Gone  — 
While  the  clock,  with  drowsy  finger, 
Marks    how    long   the    minutes   lin- 
ger, — 
And  the  embers,  dimly  burning, 
Tell  of  Life  to  Uust  returning  — 
Then  my  lonely  chair  around, 
With  a  quiet,  mournful  sound, 
With  a  murmur  soft  and  low, 
Come  the  ghosts  of  Long  Ago. 

One  by  one,  I  count  them  o'er, 
Voices,  that  are  lieard  no  more, 
Tears,  that  loving  cheeks  have  wet. 
Words, whose  music  lingers  yet,  — 
Holy  faces,  pale  and  fair, 
Shadowy  locks  of  waving  hair  — 
Happy  sighs  and  whispers  dear, 
Songs  forgotten  many  a  year,  — 
Lips  of  dewy  fragrance  —  eyes 
Brighter,  bluer  than  the  skies  — 
Odors  breathed  from  Paradise. 

And  the  gentle  shadows  glide 
Softly  nuunuuing  at  my  side, 
Till  the  long  unfriendly  day. 
All  forgotten,  fades  away. 

Thus,  when  I  am  all  alone. 
Dreaming  o'er  the  Past  and  Gone, 
All  around  me,  sad  and  slow. 
Come  the  ghosts  of  Long  Ago. 


AT  SEA. 

MiDNiOHT  in  drear  New  England, 
'Tis  a  driving  storm  of  snow  — 

How  the  casement  clicks  and  rattles. 
And  the  wind  keeps  on  to  blow! 

For  a  thousand  leagues  of  coast-line. 
In  fitful  fliuries  and  starts. 

The  wild  N'orth-Easter  is  knocking 
At  lonely  windows  and  hearts. 

Of  a  night  like  this,  how  many 
Must  sit  by  the  hearth,  like  me. 

Hearing  the  stormy  weather. 
And  thinking  of  those  at  sea  : 


Of  the  hearts  chilled  through   with 
watching. 
The  eyes  that  wearily  blink. 
Through  the  blinding  gale  and  snow- 
drift, 
For  the  Lights  of  XavesinkI 

How  fares  it,  my  friend,  with  you  ?  — 
If  I've  kept  yoiu-  reckoning  aright, 

The  brave  old  ship  must  be  due 
On  our  dreary  coast,  to-night. 

The  fireside  fades  before  me. 
The  chamber  quiet  and  warm  — 

And  1  see  the  gleam  of  her  lanterns 
In  the  wild  Atlantic  storm. 

Like  a  dream,  'tis  all  around  me  — 
The  gale,  with  its  steady  boom, 

And  the  crest  of  every  roller 
Torn  into  mist  and  spume  — 

The  sights  and  the  sounds  of  Ocean 
On  a  night  of  peril  and  gloom. 

The   shroud  of  snow  and  of  spoon- 
drift 

Driving  like  mad  a-lee  — 
And  the  iiuge  i)lack  hulk  that  wallows 

Deep  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

The  creak  of  cabin  and  bulkhead, 
The  wail  of  rigging  and  mast  — 

The  roar  of  the  shrouds  as  she  rises 
From  a  deep  lee-roll  to  the  blast. 

The  sullen  throb  of  the  engine. 

Whose  iron  heart  never  tires  — 
The  swarthy  faces  that  redden 

liy  the  glare  of  his  caverned  fires. 

The  hinnarle  slowly  swaying. 

And  musing  llu- faithful  steel  — 
And  the  grizzled  olil  quarter-master. 

His  horny  hands  on  the  wheel. 

I  can  see  it  —  the  little  cabin  — 
Plainly  as  if  I  were  there  — 

The  chart  on  the  old  green  table. 
The  book  and  the  empty  chair. 

On  tiie  deck  we  have  trod  together 
A  patient  and  manly  foini. 

To  and  fro,  by  the  foremast. 
Is  pacing  in  sleet  and  storm. 


60 


BROWNIXG. 


SiiK-e  her  ket'I  (irsl  struck  colil  water, 
l>y  the  bloriny  Cape's  dear  Light, 

Tis  little  of  sleep  or  slnmher. 
Hathelosed  o'er  that  walthful  sight, 

Aini  a  hundred  lives  are  hanging 
( In  eye  and  on  heart  to-night. 

Woidd  that  to-night.  l)eside  liim, 
1  walked  the  wateii  on  her  deek, 

Keealling  the  Legends  of  Oeean, 
Of  aiieient  oatlle  and  wreek. 

But  the  stout  old  craft  is  rolling 
A  hundred  leagues  a-lee  — 


Fifty  of  snow-wreathed  hill-side. 
And  hfty  of  foaming  sea. 

I  cannot  iiail  him,  nor  press  him 
13y     the    heart v    and     true    iit;hl 
hand  — 
I    can     lint     nnninur, — (Jod     hless 
him ! 
And  hring  him  s.-ife  tt>  the  land. 

And  send  him  the  hest  of  weather. 

'I'ha;  ere  many  suns  shall  shine. 
We  may  sit  l>y  the  hearth  toiji'ther. 

And  talk  about  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


WAirfMi  FOR  Till-:  siiir. 

IBv  C.  DW.  H.] 


\Vk  are  ever  waiting,  waiting, 
Waitinii  for  the  tide  to  turn  — 
'■  For  till'  train  at  Coventry," 
For  thr  sluggish  fire  to  burn  — 
For  a  far-oti"  friend's  return. 

\Vi'  ire  ever  hoping,  hoping, 
ll'iping  that  the  wind  will  shift  — 
That  sueeesx  may  crown  our  ventme 
ihai  the  ninrning  fog  may  lift  — 
That  the  dying  may  have  shrift. 

We  arc  evci  fearing,  fearing. 
Fearing  lest  the  ship  have  saili'd  — 
That  the  sick  mav  nc'rr  recover  — 


That  the  letter  was  not  mailed  — 
That  the  trusted  Hrm  has  failed. 

We  are  ever  wishing,  wishing, 
Wishing  we  were  far  at  sea  — 
That  the  winter  were  Iml  over  — 
That  we  could  hut  find  the  key  — 
That  til.'  prisoner  were  free. 

Wishing,  fearing^  hoping,  waiting, 
'I'luduiih   life's  voyage  —  moore«l    at 

last, 
Tedious  douhts  shall  merge  forever 
( I!e  their  sources  strait  or  vast,) 
in  the  inevitable  PasU 


Elizabeth    Barrett   Browning. 


TIIF.   SLEEP. 

He  givctli  ill»  Ix-ldved  Hleop. 

I'galm  cxxvil.  L'. 

()\  all  the  thoughts  of  Cod  that  are 
llorne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 
Along  the  I'salmist's  nmsic  deeji. 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is. 
For  gift  or  graee.  siupassing  this  — 
"  lie  givcth  Mis  belovM  sleep?" 

What  wouM  we  givp  to  our  lieloved  ' 
The  hero'-  heart,  to  be  unmoved. 


The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep. 
The    patriot's    voice,    to    teach   and 

rouse. 
The    monarcli's  crown,    to  light  the 

brows ','  — 
'■  He  givetb  His  Ixdov^d  sh'pp." 

What  ilo  we  t,'i\i"  to  our  beloved  'f 

\    little  f.ijili   ;i!l   tmdisproved. 
A   little  dusi   to  overwei'p 
And  bitter  memories  to  make 
I  lie  whole  earili  blasti'd  for  our  sakP. 
"  lie  i^ivelli   llin  beloved  slee|)." 


BROWNING. 


61 


"Sleep  soft,  beloved!"  we  soiiieliines 

say 
But  have  no  tune  to  oharni  away 
Sad  dreams  that  tln-ougli  the  eyelids 

ereep : 
But  never  doleful  dreams  au;ain 
Shall  break  the  hai)py  slumber  when 
"He  giveth  ///.s  beloved  sli>ep." 

O  earth,  so  fidl  of  dreary  noises! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices! 
O  dched  gold,  the  wallers  heap! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  His  belovfed  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mut'dy  on  the  hill. 
His  cloud  above  it  sailcth  still. 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dcAV  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  lloated  overhead, 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man. 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say,  and  t'urough  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  liennl  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  slee})." 

For  ni'?,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 
That  sees  through  tears  the  nuimmers 

leap, 
\Vould  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  /7/.s  love  repose. 
Who  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

And  friends,  dear  friends  —  when  it 

shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep. 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  "  Xot  a  tear  nuist  o'er  hci-  fall  — 
'He  giveth  His  brloved  sleep.'  " 


LITTLE  MATTIE. 

Dead  ?    Thirteen  a  month  ago! 

Short  and  narrow  her  life's  walk. 
Lover's  love  she  coidd  not  know 

Even  by  a  dream  or  talk: 


Too  young  to  be  glid  of  youth; 

Missing  honor,  labor,  rest, 
And  tlie  waiinih  of  a  babe's  incuth 

At  the  blossom  of  her  breast. 
Must  you  pity  her  foi  this,     . 
And  for  all  llie  loss  it  is  — 
\'oii,  her  uiotlier.  with  wet  face; 
Having  had  ail  in  your  case? 

Just  so  young  but  yesternight, 

\ow  she  Is  as  old  as  dealh. 
Meek,  obedient  in  your  sight, 

Gentle  to  a  beck  or  Ijreath 
Only  on  last  Monday !  yours, 

Answering  you  like  silver  hells 
Slightly  touched!  an  hour  nialtu'cs: 

Vou  can  teach  her  nothing  else. 
She  has  seen  the  myst(»ry  hid 
Under  Egyi)t's  jjyraniid: 
By  those  eyelids  jiale  and  close 
Now  she  knows  what  Hhamses  know-s 

Cross  her  quiet  hands,  and  smooth 
Down  hei-  patient  locks  of  silk, 

Cold  and  passive  as  in  truth 
You  your  fingers  in  spilt  milk 

Drew  along  a  marble  floor; 
But  her  lips  you  cannot  wring 

Into  saying  a  word  more, 

■  Yi's,"  or  "  \o,"'  or  such  a  thing. 

Though  you  call,  and  lieg.  and  wreak 

Half  your  soul  out  in  a  shriek. 

She  will  lie  there  in  default 

And  most  innocent  revolt. 

Ay,  'iud  if  she  s])oke.  may  be 

She  would  answer  like  the  SoN, 
"  What  is  now  "twixt  thee  and  me?'' 

Dreadful  answer!  better  none. 
Yours  on  Monday,  (ion's  to-*layI 

Yours,  your  chilli,  your  blood,  youi 
heart. 
Called  .  .  .  you  called  her,  did  yof 
say, 

"  Little  Mattie,"  for  your  part  ? 
Now  already  it  sounds  strange. 
And  you  wonder,  in  this  change. 
What  He  calls  His  angel-creature. 
Higher  up  than  you  can  reach  her. 

'Twas  a  green  ami  easy  world 
As  she  tot)k  it !  room  to  play, 

(Though  f)n<''s  hair  might  gel  mieurled 
^t.  the  far  end  of  tlie  dav.) 


62 


BROWNING. 


Wluit  she  suflfored  she  shook  off 

III  th<'  siiushiue:  whut  she  sinned 
She  could  pray  on  high  enough 
To  keep  safr  ai)ove  the  winil. 
If  repiojcd  by  <iud  or  you, 
'Twas  lo  hcltcr  her  siie  knew; 
And  if  crossed,  she  galliered  slill, 
'Twas  to  cross  out  something  ill. 

Ycr,  you  liad  tlie  right,  you  thought, 

To  survey  her  willi  sweet  scorn. 
Poor  gay  child,  who  had  not  caught 

Yei  the  oflave-strelch  forlorn 
Of  your  largir  wisdom!     Nay, 

Now  youi  places  are  changed  so, 
In  that  same  superior  way 

She  regards  you  <!ull  and  low 
As  you  dill  herself  exempt 
From    life's    sorrows.      (iiiind    con- 
tempt 
t)f  the  spirits  risen  awlule, 
Who  look  hack  with  such  a  smile! 

'J'iiere's  tin- sting  of 't.    That.  Ithiiik. 

Hurls  the  most,  a  thousand-lold! 
']'((  feel  sudden,  at  a  wink, 

Some  dear  child  we  usetl  to  scold. 
I'niise,  love  liiilh  ways,  kiss  and  tease. 

Teach  and  lundile  as  our  own. 
All  its  curls  al)(»ut  our  knees, 

Hise  lip  sudd(;nly  full-grown. 
^Vh^)  could  wonder  suih  a  sight 
Made  a  \\<iman  mad  out  right  '.' 
.Show  me, Michael  with  I  he  sword, 
lialher  than  such  angels,  l^ord  ! 


TO  FIJ'SII,   MY  DOG. 

lAnii  a  lady's  ringlets  brown, 
FIo'v  thy  silken  ears  adown 

L:ther  side  <lemiirely 
Of  thy  silver-suited  breast 
Shiinng  out  from  all  the  rust 

Of  thy  body  purely. 

Darkly  brown  thy  body  is, 
Till  the  sunshine  striking  this 

•Alchemize  its  dullness; 
When  the  sleek  iiuls  manifold 
h^ash  all  over  into  uold. 

With  a  burnished  fidiie.ss. 


I'nilerneath  my  stroking  hand, 
Startled  eyes  of  lia/.el  bland 

Kindling,  growing  larger. 
Up  thou  leapest  with  a  spring. 
Full  of  i)rank  and  curveting, 

Leaping  like  a  charger. 

Leaji!  thy  broad  tail  waves  alight; 
Leap!  thy  slender  feet  are  bright, 

Canoiiied  in  fringes. 
Leap —  those  tasselled  ears  of  thine, 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  ami  fine, 

Down  their  golden  imdies. 


r>ut  of  fhcc  it  shall  be  said. 
This  dog  watched  beside  a  bi>d 

Day  and  night  unwcary, — 
Watched  within  a  curtained  room, 
\\  hen-  no  sunbeam  brake  tin-  gloom 

Kotind  the  sick  and  dreary. 

Ifoses  gathered  for  a  Viise, 
In  that  chamber  died  ajiace, 

Heam  and  breeze  resigning  — 
This  d(jg  only  wailed  on. 
Knowing  that,  when  light  is  gone 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

( )ther  dogs  in  thyniy  dew 
Trackctl     the     hares    and     followei! 
through 

.Sunny  moor  or  meadow  — 
This  doi;  only  crept  and  crei)t 
NeM  lo  languid  ibeek  that  slept, 

.Sharing  in  the  sha<low. 

Ollnr  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Itoiinded  at  the  whislle  dear, 

I'p  the  wdodside  hieing  — 
This  ilog  only,  waleheil  in  reach, 
<  )f  a  fainlly  ulleied  speech. 

Or  a  louder  sighing. 

.\nd  if  one  or  two  i|nick  I'-ars 
Dro)iped  upon  his  ulossy  ears, 

( >r  a  sigh  came  double,  — 
rp  he  sprang  in  eager  basic. 


BROWNING. 


63 


Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 
In  a  tender  ti'oidjlc. 

Tlierefon;  to  this  dog  will  I, 
Tenderly,  not  scornfully. 

Render  praise  and  favor  : 
With  my  hand  upon  his  head, 
Is  my  benediction  said, 

Therefore  and  forever. 

And  because  he  loves  me  so. 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often,  man,  or  woman. 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men. 

Leaning  from  my  Human. 


CONSOLATION. 

All  are  not  taken!  there  are  left  be- 
hind 

Living  Beloveds,  tender  looks  to 
'•ring. 

And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy 
thing. 

And  tender  voices  to  make  soft  the 
wind. 

But  if  it  were  not  so  —  if  1  could  tind 

No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comfort- 
ing, 

Xor  any  path  but  hollowly  did  ring. 

Where  "dust  to  dust"  the  love  from 
life  disjoined  — 

And  if  before  these  sepulchres  un- 
moving 

1  stood  alone,  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 

Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  In  wearv 
dearth) 

Ci7ing  "  Where  are  ye,  O  my  loved 
and  loving?" 

I  know  a  voice  woidd  sound. 
"  Daughter,    I    am. 

Can  I  suttice  for  Hkavkn,  and  not 
for  earth  ?" 


A    POrtTRAIT. 

■•Oue  name  is  Klizabeth."  —  Bicx  JoNSux. 

1  WILI,  paint  her  as  I  see  her; 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 


And  her  face  is  lily-clear  — 

Lily-shaped,  and  drooped  in  duty, 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintly, 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air: 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly. 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine, 
Like  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child,  — 
Though  too  calm,  you  think,  ami 

tender. 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend 

her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 
Frank,  obedient.  — waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  young  things  — 
As  young  birds,  or  early  wheat 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only  free  from  flutterings 
Of  loud  mirth  that  soorneth  meas- 
ure — 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure: 

Choosing  pleasures  (for  the  rest) 
Which  come  .softly  —  just  as  ,s7/p. 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  talk  she  likelli  best. 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks  — 
Watering      llowers,      or      reading 
books. 


And  if  any  poet  knew  her. 

He  would  sing  of  her  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  madrigals. 

And  if  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  iiaint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  her  hair. 

And    a    stranger,  —  when    he    sees 
her 
In  the  street  oven  —  smileth  silly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 


04 


nHoW'MXG. 


\n(\  all  voiros  that  aililro'^s  lior, 
Solti'ii.  slc'Ucii  I'VtTv  wtinl. 
As  if  .-siteakiiig  to  a  binl. 

Ami  all  faiicit's  yearn  to  i-over 
Tilt*  hard  rarlli  Mli«'rt'Oii  sin-  passes, 
Witli  lln'  tliyiny-sct'iilod  grasses. 

villi  all  hearts  do  prav,  "(iod   love 
herl" 
Ay.  and  always,  in  i,'<x>d  sooth, 
W'f  niav  all  I)**  sun-  He  doth. 


ISoiniifs  /iiijii  llif  I'lTtiiijuese.) 
AHaUllASCK. 

S.w   over  again  and  yrt   tiin'e  over 

again 
That  thou  doU  love  me.    Though  the 

word  repealed 
Should    seem    '*  a   cuekoo-soiig."    as 

thou  dost  treat  it, 
Hcniemher  never  to  tlie  hill  or  plain, 
Valli  y  and  wood,  without  hereuekoo- 

strain. 
Comes    the    fresh    Spring   in    all    lnr 

green  eompleted! 
Iteiove  I,  1  amid  the  darkness  gretteil 
Hy   a  doiihtfiil    ^pirit-voirM>,   in    that 

doubt's  pain 
Cry  .  .  speak  on<e  more  .  .  thou  lov- 

est  I     Who  can  fear 
Too    many    stars,    though    each    in 

heaven  shall  roll  — 
Too  many  (lowers,  though  eatii  shall 

erown  the  year  ? 
'^ay  thou  dost  love  me,  love   me,  love 

m< —  loll 
riie  silver  iterance! — only  minding, 

dear, 
I'c)  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy 

Boul. 


I   love  thee   to   the   level    of   every- 

day's 
Most  ((uiet  ne<'d,  hv  snn  and  candle 

light. 
1  lov<'  thee  freelv.  as  men  strive  foi 

Right : 
1  love  I  her  purely,  as  they  turn   from 

Tralse: 
I  love  thee  with   the  passion   put   to 

use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  wiili  my  child- 
hood's faith; 
1  love  thee  with  a  love  1  seemed  to 

lose 
With  my   lost  saints,  —  I    love  thee 

with  the  hrcath. 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life!  —  and,  if 

(iotl  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  l)etter  after  death. 


I'EltFHi  r  l.ovi 

iloW  do  I    love  thee?       Let    iiir   riiiiiil 

llh-  ways. 
i  lovi-  tlira-  to  the  (le]>th  and  hreadth 

and  height 
Iv  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out 

of  sight 
l-'tirlhe  endsof  iN'ingund  iileal  grace. 


rHHKK    KISSKS. 

Flics r  tirni"  he  kissed  me.  he  but  onh 

kissed 
The  lingers  of  this  haiul  wherewith  1 

write, 
And   ever  since  it  grew  more  clean 

and  white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings  .  .  quick  with 

its  •*  Oh,  list  I'"* 
When   the  angels  speak.     A  rin;,' nf 

amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here  ])lainer  to  mv 

sight. 
Than    that    lirst     kiss.     Tlie    seeond 

|iasse<l  in  height 
The  liisi,  and   >ou'.;hl    the   forehead, 

and  li  ilf  niisse<l, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     Oh,  beyond 

meed! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which 

love's  own  crow  n. 
With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  |ire- 

ceile. 
Th<-  third   U|ioii   my  lips    was   folded 

dow  II 
In  perfect,  purple  slali-!  since  wiii-ii, 

indeed. 
1  have    bei'ii    proud    and    said,    "  .Mj 

h>\c,  my  own." 


BROWNING. 


6r 


THE   CRY  OF  THE   HlJM.iX. 

"There   is    no   God,"    the    foolish 
saith, 
But  none,  "Tliere  is  no  sorrow;" 
And  nature  ot'l,  tlie  cry  of  failh, 

in  bitti'i-  need  will  borrow: 
Eyes  whieh  the  preacher  could  not 
school. 
By  wayside  graves  are  raised ; 
Ajid  lips  say.  *'  God  be  pitiful," 
That  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 
Be  pitiful,  O  God! 

iVe  sit  together  with  the  skies. 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us : 
We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 

"  And  how  long  will  you  love  us  ?" 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  i)rophecy. 

The  voices  low  and  breathless  — 
'•  Till  death  us  part! "  —  O  words  to 
be 

Our  best  for  love,  the  deathless ! 

Be  pitiful,  dear  Gotl  I 

\Ve  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  departed  — 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night, ''  Be  stronger  hearted ! " 
O  <Tod,  —  to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely !  — 
'I'u  see  a  light  upon  such  i>iows, 

Which  is  the  daylight  only! 
Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

We  sit  on  liills  our  childhood  wist, 
^\''oo(ls,  hamlets,  streams,  btdiold- 
ing; 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest 
mist, 
The  city's  spire  to  golden. 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was. 

When  hope  and  health  were  strong- 
est. 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass 
^Ve  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God! 

Antl  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull  — 
Men  whisper,  "  He  is  dying!" 

We  cry  no  more,  "  Be  pitiful!  "  — 
We  have  no  strength  lor  <•! yiug; 

No  strength,  no  net'd!    Then,  soul  of 
mine, 


Look  up  and  triumph  rather  — 

Lo!  In  the  de))th  of  (iod's  Divine, 

The  .Son  abjures  the  Father  — 

Be  prriFUL,  O  Gon 


ojvr.  r  A  (URL. 

FuiENDS    of   faces   unknown  and  a 
land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand. 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me! 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 

VVhat  a  fatlujr  and  mother  can  do. 

With    thg    bright  yellow   locks   put 

away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay. 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than 
you:  — 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 
Into  weak  woman's  tears   for  re- 
lief •? 
Oh,  childi'en!  1  never  lost  one. 
But  my  arm's   round  my  own    little 
son. 
And    Love    knows    the    secret   of 
Grief. 

And  1  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is 
When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 

Through  the  house  of  a  man  up  to 
His, 

With  a  nuninur  of  music  you  miss. 
And  a  rapture  of  light  you  forego. 

How   you   think,    staring   on   at  the 
dooi" 
WluM-(>    the    face    of    your    angel 
Hashed  in. 
That  its  brightness,  familiar  before. 
Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  ilaik  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 

"  (Jod  lent  him  and  takes  him."  you 
sigh  .   .   . 
—  Nay,    there  let  me    break    with 
your  pain. 
(Jod's  generous  in  giving,  say  L 
And  tlie  thing  which  he  gives.  T  deny 
Thrtt  he  can  ever  take  back  again 


6« 


BROWNING . 


lit'  ijivos  what  lie  ■,'ivos.     I  ajipoal 

To  all  wholit'ar  halx'sl    In  llir  hour 
W'hi'ii  till'  Vfi!  of  lln'  huiiy  w<'  fffl 
Kfiil  roiiml  us,  while  lorimMits  reveal 
The  inotherhootrs  advent  in  power; 

Ami  the  hahfi  cries,  —  have  all  of  us 
known 
Hy  apocalypse  (God  beinfi  there. 
Full  in  nature!)  the  child  19,  our  own  — 
Life  of   life,  love  of   love,  moan   of 
moan. 
Through    all   changes,    all    times, 
everj'where. 

lie's  ours  and  forever.     IJelieve, 

0  father!  —  O  mother,  look  hack 
To  the  lirst  love's  assuranw!   Toji^ive 
Means,  with    (Jod,    not   to  tempt    or 
deceive 
With  a  cup  thrust  in  Henjamin's 
.sack. 

lie  ijives  what  lie  gives:  he  content. 

Ih-  resumes  nothing  given — itesure. 
(Jod  lend  ".' —  where  the  usurers  lent 
In  Mis  temple,  indignant  he  went 

.\nd  scourged  away  all  those   Im- 
pure. 

II"'  lends  not,  hut  gives  to  the  eiiil, 
.\s  lie  loves  to  llie  end.      If  it  seem 

That  he  draws  hack  a  gift,  comjire- 
hend 

'Tis  to  ad<l  to  it  rather  .   .   .  ainenil. 
And  lini>h  it  up  to  your  dream,  — 

Or  keeji  ...  as  a  mother  may,  toys 

Too  eoslly  though  given  Iiy  herself, 
rill    the   room   shall   Im-   stiller   from 

noiM-. 
\nil  the  ehildreu  more  tit    for  sueh 
j'»ys, 
Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

So  look  uj),  friends!    You  who  indeed 
Have    possi-ssed    in    yt»in'   Jioiise   a 
sweet  jiieee 
<  >f  111.'  heaven  wliiih  men  strive  for, 

must  need 
!;•■    more    earnest    than    others      .'•. 
sjieed 
Where     they    loiter,    persist     where 
lh«'y  ceUse. 


You  know  how  one  angel  smih's  there. 

Then  t'ouragel     "i'is  easy  for  you 
To  he  drawn  hy  a  single  goiil  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and 
<les]iair 

To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Ailieul 


[From  Aurora  /.I'it/li.'] 

h/.\j>\/:ss  r/nsr  hxniry  /.v  a 

//OS/'/TA/.. 

.  .  .  .  The   i)lace   seemed    new  and 

strange  as  death. 
The    white    strait    hed,   with   others 

strait  and  white. 
Like  graves  dug  side  hy  side,  at  inea.<i- 

nred  lengths, 
.\nd  quiet  i)eople  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful   low  voices  ami  soft 

ste]>s. 
.\nd  aii]>aritioiial  eipial  i-are  for  each, 
.\stonishi'd   her  with  order,   silenct-, 

law:  I'lip. 

-\nd  when  a  gentle  hand  hi-ld  out   a 
She  took  it,  as  you  do  at  saenimenl. 
Half  awed,  half  melted, — not  heing 

U.sed.  indeed. 
To  .so  mueh  love  as  makes  the  form 

of  lr>ve 
.\nd  courtesy  of  manners.     Delicate 

ilrinks 
And  rare  while  bread,  to  which  .some 

dying  eyes  ((Jod. 

Were  turned  in  observation.     O  my 
ilow   sick  we   must   be.  ere  we  make 

men  just ! 
I  think  it  frels  the  .saints  in  b. 'aven 

to  .see 
Ilow  manv  desolate  creatures  on  the 

earth 
1  lave  learnt  lhesimi>le  dues  of  fellow- 

ship 
.\nd  social  comfort,  in  a  hos>"lal. 


[/•'mm  All  runt  Lriyh.] 

.SA7,/-7.s7/.V/  ss    )>/■•  ISTItOSI'FA'- 
ri(>\. 

W  \:  are  wronu  alway*   when  we  think 

loo  much 
of  what  we  think  or  are;  albeit  our 

thuughtH 


BROWNING. 


67 


13e  verily  bitter  as  self-sacrifice, 

We  are  no  less  selfish!     If  we  sleep 

on  rocks 
Or  roses,  sleeping  past  the  hour  of 

'     noon. 
We're  lazy. 


[From  Aurora  Leigh.'] 
A    CHAliACTEIi. 

AS  light  November  snows  to  empty 
nests. 

As  grass  to  graves,  as  moss  to  mil- 
dewed stones, 

As  July  suns  to  ruins,  through  the 
rents. 

As  ministering  spirits  to  mourners, 
through  a  loss, 

As  Heaven  itself  to  men,  through 
pangs  of  death 

He  came  uncalled  wherever  grief  had 
come. 


I 


[From  Aurora  Leigh.'] 
PICTURE   OF  MARIAN  ERLE. 

Shk  was  not  white  nor  brown 
But  could  look  either,  like  a  mist  that 

changed 
According  to  being  shone  on  more  or 

less. 
The   hair,  too,   ran   its   opulence   of 

curls 
In  doubt  'twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor 

left  you  clear 
'i'o  name  tlie  color.     Too  much  hair 

l)('rha;>s 
(I'll  name  a  fault  here)  for  so  small  a 

head, 
Which  seemed  to  droop  on  that  side 

and  on  this. 
As  a  full-blown  rose,  uneasy  with  its 

weiglit , 
Though  not  a  breath  should  trouble 

it.     Again, 
The  dimple  in  the  cheek  had  better 

gone 
With  redder,  fuller roiuids:  and  some- 
what larg(» 
The   mouth    was.    though  the  milky 

little  teeth 
Dissolved  it  111  s(i  iiif:nitiiie  ;i  smile! 


For  soon  it  smiled  at  me;  the  eyes 

smiled  too. 
But  'twas  as  if  remembering  they  had 

wept. 
And  knowing  they  should,  some  day, 

weep  again. 


^  [From  Aurora  Leigh.'] 

THE  ONE  UNIVERSAL  SYMPATHY. 

.   .   .   .   O  WORLD, 

O  jurists,  rhymers,  dreamers,  what 
you  please. 

We  play  a  weary  game  of  hide  and 
seek! 

We  shape  a  figure  of  our  fantasy. 

Call  nothing  something,  and  run  af- 
ter it 

And  lose  it,  lose  ourselves,  too,  in  the 
search, 

Till  clash  against  us,  comes  a  some- 
body 

Who  also  has  lost  something  and  is 
lost 


[From  Aurora  Leigh,] 
IN  STRUGGLE. 

Alas,  long  suffering  and  most  patient 

God, 
Thou  need' St  be  surelier  God  to  bear 

with  us 
Than  even  to  have  made  us !  thou  as- 
pire, aspire 
From  henceforth  for  me!  thou  who 

hast,  thyself. 
Endured     this    fleshhood,    knowing 

how,  as  a  soaked 
And  sucking  vesture,  it  would  drag 

us  down 
And    choke    us    in   the  melancholy 

deep, 
Sustain  me,  that,  with  tliee,  I  walk 

these  waves, 
riesisting !  —  breathe  me  upward,  thou 

for  me 
Aspiring,    who    art    the  Way,    tlie 

Truth,  tlie  Life,  — 
That  no  truth  lienceforth  seem  indif 

ferent. 
No  way  to  truth  laborious,  and  no  life. 
Not  even  this  life  1  live,  intolerable' 


68 


HHOWNING. 


Robert  Browning. 


P/iOSPICK. 

Fkau  death'.'  —  to  feol  iho  fo<i  in  my 
lliioat. 
Tin'  iiii>l  in  my  face, 
Wlni)  tin-  snows  begin,  and  tiic  blasts 
denote 
1  am  ni'aring  the  place, 
Tlu'  povMT  of  the  night,  the  press  of 
the  stonn, 
TIk"  im>^i  of  the  foe; 
Wliere  he  stands,  the  Arch-Fear  in  a 
visiblf  form. 
Yet  the  stroni,'  man  nuist  go; 
Now  tin' jonrney  is  done  and  tin  sum- 
mit attaiiifd. 
And  the  barrirrs  fall. 
Though   a   i)attic's   to    light  ere  the 
guerdon  be  gained, 
Thf  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so,  —  one  liglit 
more. 
The  best  ami  thf  last! 
I  would   liate  thai    Diath   bandaged 
my  eyt's,  and  forbore. 
And  bade  me  creep  |)ast. 
Nol  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare 
like  my  peers. 
The  heroes  of  old, 
lieur  the  brunt,  in  a  nunute  pay  glad 
life's  arieais. 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  tin-  worst  turns  the  he.st 
to  the  brave. 
The  blaek  inimite's  at  end, 
AncI    tlie  elements'    raj^e,   the    fiend- 
voiecs  that  rave. 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall    eliaii'^e,    shall    become    first   a 
peace,  then  a  joy. 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast. 
O  Hold  ot  my  sold!  1  shall   riasp  I  bee 
auaiii. 

And   willl  (ioil   be  the  rest  I 


/,V   A    YEAIi. 

N'kvi-  It  an\  more 

Wbil-  I  live. 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

,\m  before. 


Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive,  — 
IJitterlv  we  re-eml)race, 

Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Somelhini:  done, 
Ve.\ed  him  '.'  was  it  touch  of  hand 

Turn  of  head  '? 
Strange!  thai  \ery  way 

lA)Ve  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Lo\e  s  decay. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  reeall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang 

—  .Sweetly  loo. 
If  I  spoke  a  word. 

First  of  all 
Ip  his  chi'i'k  the  color  sprang, 

Then  be  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side. 

At  my  feet. 
.So  he  breathed  the  air  1  lireathed 

.Salislicd! 
1  loo.  .It  love's  brim 

Toliehed  the  sweel : 
I  would  die  if  death  bei|U(Mithe<I 

.Sweet  l«(  liiiii. 

"  SiH-ak.  —  I  love  ih.'e  best !  " 

He  exclaimed. 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell."- 

I  confessed : 
"i'lusl  my  heart  on  thine 

No\v  unblamed. 
Since  iiiion  thy  'oul  as  well 

liaic^etji  mine!" 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Tleiiii;  truth  '.' 
Whv  should  ,(ll  the  ^'i\  m_'  innve 

Mis  alone'.' 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

IJeaulv.  yoiUh,  — 
Since  my  lover  ;;ave  me  love, 

I  ;;ave  tlicsc. 


BROWNING. 


69 


That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just, 

Aiiil  the  passion  1  had  raised 

To  com  cut. 
Since  ho  chose  Lo  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised, 

Was  it  strange? 

Would  111'  love  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 

While  1  found  some  way  undreamed, 

—  Paid  my  debt! 
Give  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone, 
He  should  smile,  "She  never  seemed 
Mine  before. 

"What  —  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think  '? 
,. eve's  so  different  with  us  men," 

lie  should  smile. 
"  Dying  for  uiy  sake  — 

Whit.'  and  pink! 
Can't  we  touch  those  bubbles  then 

Ihit  they  break?" 

^3ear,  the  jiang  is  brief. 

Do  Ihy  i)art, 
'Live  tliy  I'leasure.     How  perplext 

(ttous  belief! 
Well,  this  'Old  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 
Crumble  it ,  —  and  what  comes  next  ? 

is  it  God  ? 


EVELYN  irOPE. 

Hkautifui,  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 
She  plucked    that  piece    of    gera- 
iiium-dower. 
IJeginning  lo  die  too,  in  the  glass. 
Little    has    yet    been    changed,    1 
Ihink, 
The  shutters  are  shut,  —  no  light  may 
pass 
Save    two   long   rays   through    the 
hinge's  chink. 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my 
name,  — 
It  was  not  her  lime  to  love;  beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  I'ttle  cares; 

And  now  was  (juiet,  now  astir,  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  imawares. 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of 
her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true; 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope. 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 
And  oui' paths  in  the  world  diverged 
so  wide. 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be 
told  ? 
We  were  fellow-mortals,  —  naught 
beside  ? 

No,  indeed!  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant  as  mighty  to  make. 

And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the 

love; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  mv  own  love's 

sake! 

Delayed,  it  may  be,  for   more  lives 

yet, 

Through    worlds    1    shall  traverse, 
not  ;i  f('\\  ; 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking 
you. 

But    the    lime  will  come  —  at  last   il 
will  — 
When,  Evelvn  Hope,  what   merinl, 
I  shall  say. 
In    the   lower   earth,  —  in    the  years 
long  still,  — 
That    IkhIv  and  .soul    so  pure  and 
gay  ?  ■ 
Why   your   hair   was  ainber    I    shal' 
divine. 
And  your  mouth  of  your  own  gcra 
nimn's  red.  — 
.\nd  wliat  vou  would  do  with  me,  in 
line. 
In  tin-  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's 
stead. 


70 


BROWNINO. 


1  liave  lived,  shall  I  say,  so  much  since 
then. 
(Jiveii  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained    me     ihe    gains    of    various 
men, 
liansaekeil    the    siges,    spoiled    the 
climes: 
Yet  one  thini;  —  one  —  in  my  soul's 
full  scope. 
Either  I  missed,    or    itself    missed 
me.  — 
And    1    want   and    lind  von,    Evelyn 
Hope: 
What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see! 

1  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while; 
Mv  heart   seemed   full   as  it  could 
hold, — 
There  wius  space  and  to  sjiare  for  the 
frank  youni^  smile. 
And  the  red  yoiint;  moutli.  and  the 
hair's  youny  i;oid. 
So,  hush!  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to 
keep: 
ijee,  1  slutl  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold 
hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret!  go  to  sleep; 
You  will  wake,  and  rememher,  and 
understand. 


[Frrnn  In  it  <../r,./..,.j.| 

TJ/K    TWO   KISSES. 

TiiK  Molh'.s  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  helieve 

Vou  W«'re  not   Slue,  tills  eve, 

Ilnw    my    faei',     your     (lower,     had 

pursed 
lis  petals  up;  so,  here  and  lliere 
Vol!  Iiriish  it,  till  I  grow  aware 
Wii     wants  me,  jukI  wide  ojieil  lillisl. 

The  Bee's  kis.s,  now! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
.My  li'-arl  at  ^oIll(•  noonday, 
A  bud  tlial  dated  ni^l  disallow 
'I'lie  I'laiiii.  H<i  (ill  is  rendered  up. 
And  passively  ith  sliaiiered  cup 
Over  your  lnad  lo  s|.i|.  1  Imw. 


now  TiiF.y  liiiouoiir  tiik  good 

SEWS   FUn.M   GHESI'    in   MX. 

I  ."^I'ltAXCJ  to  the  slirnip,  and  Joris 
and  he: 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  gal- 
lopetl  all  three; 

••  (Jood  speed!"  cried  the  watch  as 
the  gati'-bolts  uiulrew, 

"  Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  lo  as  gal- 
loping through. 

Ik'hind  .shut  the  postern,  the  lights 
sank  to  rest. 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped 
abreast. 

Xot  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kejit 

the  great  jiace  — 
Neck  by  ne<"k.  striile  by  stride,  never 

changing  our  place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its 

girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set 

the  piipie  right, 
IJehuckled    the  check-strap,  chained 

slacker  the  hit, 
Nor  gallopetl   less  steadily  Roland  a 

whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while 

we  drew  near 
Loki'ien.  the  eoeks  crew  and  twilight 

dawned  detir; 
At    Hoom   a  great  yellow   star  came 

out  to  see; 
.\l  DiilTild  'I  was  iiioriiiug  as  jilaiii  as 

i-oiild  lie; 
.\nd  from  Mechein  <'huri'h-stee]ile  we 

heard  the  lialf-cliini<-  — 
.So    .loris    broke    sileiict"    willi   "  W-\ 

there  is  time! " 

At  .Verscliot  up  liaped  of  a  siuldi-ii 
Ihe  sun, 

.\ud  against  him  Ihe  cattle  stood 
black  e\<ry  one. 

To  stare  ihroiiiili  the  mist  at  us  gal- 
lojiiiig  past ; 

And  I  saw  uiv  stout  g.illoper  Holand 
at  last," 

With  resolute  shouldertt,  c;u-h  bulling 
aw.iy 

The  haze,  as  .some  bliilT  rlvi'i  head- 
land its  Hpruy; 


BROWNING. 


71 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one 
sharp  ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  priclced 
cut  on  his  track; 

And  one,  eye's  black  intelligence, — 
ever  that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own 
master,  askance; 

And  the  thick  hea\'j'  spume-flakes, 
which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  gal- 
loping on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried 
Joris,  "Stay  spur! 

Your  Eoos  galloped  bravely,  the 
fault's  not  in  her; 

We'll  remember  at  Aix"  —  for  one 
heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck, 
and  staggering  knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of 
the  flank. 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shud- 
dered and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud 
in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  piti- 
less laugh ; 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle, 
bright  stubble  like  ohatf ; 

Till  over  by  Delhem  a  dome-spire 
sj)rang  white, 

And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for 
Aix  is  in  sight!  " 

"  How  they'll  greet  us ! "  —  and  all  in 
a  moment  his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  cioup  over,  lay  dead 
as  a  stone; 

And  there  was  my  lioland  to  bear 
t'le  whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save 
Aix  from  her  fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of 
blood  to  the  brim. 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye- 
sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each 

holster  let  fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go 

belt  and  all, 


Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  pat- 
ted his  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my 
horse  without  jieer  — 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  simg, 
any  noise,  bad  or  good. 

Till  at  length  into  Aix,  Roland  gal- 
loped and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flock- 
ing round. 

As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my 
knees  on  the  ground ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this 
Roland  of  mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last 
measure  of  M'ine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  com- 
mon consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who 
brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


[From  The  Ring  and  The  Hook:] 
DREAMS. 

It  is  the  good  of  dreams  —  so  soon 

they  go ! 
Wake  in  a  horror  of  heart-beats  you 

may  — 
Ciy,    "The  dead    thing  will    never 

from  my  thoughts!" 
Still,  a  few  daylight  doses  of  plain 

life, 
Cock-crow    and     sparrow-chirp,     or 

bleat  and  bell 
Of  goats  that  trot  by,  tinkling  to  be 

milked; 
And  when  you  rub  your  eyes  awake 

and  wide. 
Where   is  the  harm  o'   the  horror  ? 

Gone ! 


[From  The  Rinii  and  The  Hook.] 
THE   LACK  OF  CHILDREN. 

What  could  they  be  but  happy?  — 

balanced  so, 
Nor  low  i'  the  social  scale  nor  yet  too 

high. 
Nor  poor  nor  richer  than  comports 

with  ease. 


HRYAXT. 


Nor  bright  and  onvied,  nor  obsrure 

ami  MdHK'd, 
Nur  so  yoiinL,'  tlial  thi'ir  ploasun's  fell 

ton  thick. 
Nor  old  pa.^l  calcliing  iileasure  whon 

it  f.'ll, 
Nothing  iihovf.  Ih'Iow  the  just  degre*'. 
All  at  tin-  iin-aii  wliiMv  joy's  conipo- 

nt'iits  mix. 
So  again,  in  ihc  (•oni»li'"s  very  souls 
Vou  saw  tlie  adtMiuatf  half  with  half 

to  match, 
h'Ach  having  and  c;ich  Licking  sonu'- 

\\  lial,  hotli 
Vaking   a   whole   that    had   all   and 

lacked  naught; 
Ihn  round  and  sound,  in  whose  com- 
posure just 
The  a('t|uicsccnt  and  recipient  side 
Was  Pietro's,  and  the  stirring  striv- 
ing one 
N'iolante's:  both   in   ludon   gave  the 

due 
t^uietiule,    enterprise,    craving    and 

I'onlelll, 
Which  go  to  l)odily  heallh  and   peace 

of  mind, 
lint,    as    "lis    said     a     liody.     rightly 

mixed. 
Kach    I'leinenl    in    e<|uipoise.     would 

last 


Too  long  and  live  forever,  —  airord 

ingly 
Holds  a  germ  —  sand-grain  woighltoo 

much  i'  ihe  s«'ale  — 
Ordained   to  ^et    predominance   one 

day 
.\nil  so  liiingall  to  ruin  ami  role;iae, — 
Not    otherwise   a   fatal   germ   linked 

here: 
"  With   mortals   much   must   go.  luit 

something  stays; 
Nothing  will   slay  of  our  so  happy 

selves." 
Out    of   the    very    ripeness    of    life's 

core 
A  worm  was  bred  —  'Our  life  shall 

leave  no  fruit."" 
Knough  of  bliss,  they  ihoughl,  could 

hlis>  bear  seeii. 
Yield    its   like,    propagate  a   bli.ss  ir. 

I  urn 
And  kee|i  the  kind  up;  not  supplant 

lliemselves 
Kill     put     ill    I'videnee,    reeonl    they 

\\<'i'e. 

Show    ilieiii,  when  done  with,  i'   llie 

shape  of  a  child. 
■'  "i  is  in  a  child,  man  and  wife  grow 

coMlplele, 

<  )ne  llesh:   (Jod  says  .so:  let   him  do 
his  work!  " 


William    Cullen    Bryant. 


"HLHssK/i  A  hi:  iiii:)    tiiat 
vol  j:\.  " 

On.  deem  mil  they  are  blest  alone 
Whost;  lives  a  i>ea<'eful  tenor  keep; 

rh(!    I'ower    who    ]iitii-s     man     has 
shown 
A  blessing  for  'ne  i-yes  ihal  weep. 

Till'  liiibt  of  smiles  shall  till  ii\i.t\ii 
The  lids  Ihal  ovcrllow  wiiii  t<iirs; 

,\nd  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
.Vre  promises  of  liapjiier  years. 

Tlien  ;  .  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  ami  troubled  ni^bl : 

Anil  1^1  ief  mav  bide  an  evening  gue-.i, 
ihil  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 


And  Ihoii.  who,  o'er  Ihv  friend's  low 
bier. 

.'sbedilesi  the  hitler  drojis  of  rain. 
llopH  thai  a  brighter,  happier  sitlier. 

Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  III  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
'riiough  life  its  comnuHi  uillsiieny, 

'rboilgb  with  a  pieiv.d   and   bleediiiff 
hearl. 
.\nd  s|>uri,e.l  of  men,  he  goes  Iodic. 

For  (iod  balli  marked  eacli  mrrowing 
day 
.\nd  mimlMTetl  every  secret  tear, 
.\nd  heaven's  long  .ige  of  bliss  shall 
pay 
For  all  Ills  cbililreii  siilVer  huru. 


BRYANT. 


73 


JL\/:. 

I  GAZED  Upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  nioiuitains  round ; 
And,  Uiought  thai  when   I  canu'  to 
lie 
At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere    pleasant,    that     in     liowery 

June, 
When    brooks    send    up  a    clieeiful 
tune, 
And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The    sexton's    hand,    my    grave    to 

make. 
The  rich,  green  motintain  turf  should 
break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 
A  coftin  borne  through  sleet, 

And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled. 

While  fieice  the  tempests  beat  — 

Iwayl  —  I  will  not  think  of  these  — 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze. 
Earth  green  beneath  the  feet. 

And    be    the    damp    mould     gently 
liressed 

Into  my  nairow  i)lace  of  rest. 

There  througli  the  long,  long  sum- 
mer hours 
Tlie  golden  light  should  lie. 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of 
flowers 
Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  dose  beside  mv  cell; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  (here  be 

heard 
The  housewife   bee   and    Inumning- 
bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent. 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  faiiy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if.  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrotlie<l  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
1  would  tlie  lovely  scene  aiound 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  or  souml. 

T  know,  T  know  I  should  not  see 
The  season's  glorious  show. 


Nor  would   its  brighlne.".s  .shine   for 

me. 
Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
IJut  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep. 
The  frientls  1   love  should  come  to 

weep. 
They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
.Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and 

bloom, 
Shoulii  keep  them  lingering  by  my 

tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should 
bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been. 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circiuL  of  the  summer  hills. 

Is  —  that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  wjuld  their  hearts  rejoice 
'l"o  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


THE  PAST. 

TiioiT  unrelenting  Past! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round    thy 
dark  domain. 
And  fetters,  sure  and  fast. 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing 
reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old    empires   sit   in  sullenness  and 
gloom. 
And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow'  of  thy 
womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth. 
Youth,    Manhood,    Age,   that  draws 
us  to  tlu"  ground. 
And  last.  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
(ilide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are 
bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends  —  thb 
good  —  the  kind. 
Yielded  to  thee  with  tears  — 
The    venerable    form  —  the    e.xalttvl 
mind. 


Bin  A  XT. 


My  spirit  yearns  to  brin}j 
'Ilif  lost  oiit's  hark  —  yt'iirns  with  de- 
siif  iiiii'iisc. 
Ami  struiii^ii's  jiiird  to  wriiiir 
Thy  bolts  apjirl,  ami  jiliick  thy  cap- 
tives Ihence. 

In  vain  —  thy  pitos  deny 
All  passaiic  save  to  thost-  who  hence 
ch'part ; 
Nor  to  the  sti-eaniin*;  eye 
'Ihou  uiv'st  tlieni  back  —  nor  to  the 
broken  heart. 

In  tliy  abysses  lude 
iJiiiiiiy   and   excellence   unknown  — 
to  tbcc 
Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Arc  leathered,  as  the  waters    to    the 
sea; 

Labors  of  ijoml  to  man," 
riipiiblislKMl        charity,       unbroken 
faith,— 
Love  that  midst  jLjricf  bci^an. 
And   <{rew   with  years,  and  faltered 
not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lnrk>>  in  thy  depths,  unuttered.  un- 
rcvered; 
With  tliec  are  silent  fame, 
Fornoltcn   arts,  and    wisdom   disap- 
peared. 

Thine  for  a  sjiace  arc  they  — 
V<l  shall  thou  yield  thy  Ireasmes  up 
at   last: 

'I'hv  gall's  shall  vet  give  wav. 
Thy  boils  shall  fall,  "inexorable  "I'ast! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  yrdic  into  thy  womb  from  earliest 
lime. 
Shall  then  i-omc  forth  to  wear 
The   glory    and    the    beauty    ol     its 
prime. 

They  have  not  jjcrished  —  no! 
Wind  wonls,  remeudteicil  voices  once 
so  sWecl, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
.A  lid  fealiires,  the  great  soul's  appar- 
ent seat. 


All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  atTeciioM  shall  be  knit  again, 

Aloiic  shall  evil  die. 
And  sorrow  ilwell  a  prisouer  in  thy 
reign. 

And  then  shall  1  behold 
Iliin,  by  whose  kind  paternal  s..le  1 
siirung. 
And  her,  who,  still  and  cold. 
Fills  the  next  grave  —  the  bitautiful 
and  young. 


TU.i.y.iroj'Sis. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature 

lioltls 
romiuimion  with   her  visible  forms, 

she  speaks 
A    various    language;   for  his   gayer 

hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a 

smile 
And   elo(|Uence  of  beauty,  and  sIih 

glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
.\nd    healing   sympathy,   that  steals 

away 
Their    sliaiimess    ere    he   is   a.vaie 

When  thoughts 
Of  the  last   bitter  hour  come  like  h 

blight 
Over  thy  sj)irit,  an<l  sad  images 
Of  the  sierii  agonv,  and  shrou'.,  and 

pall. 
.Viid    hieatliless    darkness,   and    the 

narrow  house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick 

at  heart;  — 
fill  forlh,  iiinler  the  open  sky,  and 

list 
To   .Nature's   teachings,   while  from 

all  around  — 
Karlh  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths 

of  air  — 
(  itmes  a  still  voice  :   Vet  a  few  days 

and  thee 
The   all  beholding    sun     hall    see   ni> 

more 
111  all  his  eoitise;  nor  yet  ni  the  cold 

groiuiil. 
\\'ii<re  thy  pale  loriii  was  laid,  wilb 

luauy  leant, 


BRYANT. 


7(j 


Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall 
exist 

Thy  linage.  Earth,  that  nourished 
thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth 
again, 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surren- 
dering up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible 
rock 

And  to  the  sluggisli  clod,  which  the 
rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  up- 
on.    Tlie  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and 
pierce  tliy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting- 
place 
Shall  thou  retire  alone, —  nor  couldsi 

thou  w  ish 
Couch     more     magnificent.        Tliou 

shall  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world 

—  with  kings. 
The    powerful     of    the    earth  —  the 

wise,  lilt?  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages 

past. 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The 

hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun; 

the  vales 
Stretching  in   pensive  quietness  be- 
tween ; 
The    venerable    woods;    rivers    that 

move 
In    majesty,    and    the    complaining 

brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and, 

poured  round  all. 
Old    ocean's    gray   and    melancholy 

waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of    the    great    tomb   of   man.     The 

golden  sun. 
The  planets,  all  the  inlinite  host  of 

heaven. 
Are   shining   on    the  sad  abodes    of 

death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All 

that  tread 


The  globe  are  but  .i  handful  to  the 

liibcs 
That  slumber  in  i's  bosom.  —  Take 

the  wings 
Of  morning,  travei-se  Barca's  desert 

sands. 
Or    lose    thyself   in   the  continuous 

woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears 

no  sound. 
Save    his    own    dashings  —  yet    the 

dead  are  there: 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since 

first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid 

them  down 
In  their    last    sleep;  the  dead  reign 

there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou 

withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no 

friend 
Take   note  of  thy   departure  ?     All 

that  breathe 
Will   share    thy    destiny.     The    gay 

will  laugh 
When   thou  art  gone;    the    solemn 

brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will 

chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these 

shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments, 

and  shall  come. 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As 

the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men. 
The  youth  in  life's  green  sjiring,  and 

he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron, 

and  maid. 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray- 
headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy 

side. 
By  those  who  in  'heir  turn  shall  fol- 
low them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons 

comes  to  join 
The    innumerable     caravan,     which 

moves 
To  that  mysterious  -ealm,  where  eaok 

shall  take 


7C 


BRYANT. 


His  cliamliiT  in  the  silent  halls  of 
d.alh. 

Thou  ;;o  not.  likf  the  quarry-slave 
al  night. 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sus- 
laiui'd  and  sootiied 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach 
lli>  grave 

Like  out-  who  wraps  the  drapery  of 
hi?,  fouili 

About  him.  Mid  lies  down  lo  pleas- 
ant iheanis. 


Till-:  t:\h:si\ii  uisn. 

Si'ii:ii'    that     breathest    through   my 

iaitiee.  thou 
That  <o»ilest  the  twilight  of  the 

sidlry  day, 
(iralefully  llows  thy  freshness  round 

my  lnow: 
Thou    hast    been    out    upon    tin 

deep  al  play. 
Killing  all  (lay  the  wild    blue   wave> 

(ill  niiw. 
Koughening     their    crests,    and 

scattering  high  their  s]iray 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     1  wel- 
come thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer 

of  tin;  seal 

Xor    I    aloni — a    tbons.ind    bosoms 

roiunl 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fidness  of  tle- 

lighl; 
And    languid     forms    rise    u]>.    and 

pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  eoniing  of  the  wind 

of  night ; 
And,  languisiiing  to  hear  thy  grate- 
ful sound. 
IJes    the    va.st   inland    stretched 

beyond  llu!  sight. 
(Jo  forth    into  the  giithering  shad<'; 

go  lorlh. 
(iod's     blessing     breiithed     Up'>n     the 

fainting  earth! 
<;o,  roek  the  litlli-  wood-binl   in  his 

nest. 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with 
stars,  anil  rous4> 


The  wide  old  woo<l  from  his  majes 

tic  rest, 
Sunnnoinng.  from  the  iinnnner- 

alile  boughs. 
The    .sti-.mge.    deep   harmonies   thai 

haunt  his  breast : 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  wher* 

meekly  bows 
The    shutting    llower,    and   darkling 

waters  pass. 
Ami  where  t he o'ershadowing  branch- 

es  sweep  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver 

h*-ad 
To  feel  thee;  thou  shall   ki.ss  tlie 

child  asleep. 
And    dry    the    moistened    curls   that 

overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing 

grows  more  dee|>: 
And  they   who  stand  anout    the  sick 

man's  bed. 
.Shall  joy  to  listen  lo  thy  distant 

swce]!. 
And  softly  pari  his  curtains  to  allov 
Thy    visit,   grateful   to   liis    burning' 

brow. 

(b)  —  1  .It  the  eiiele  of  eternal  change, 
Wliieli  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall 

restore. 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy 

mighty  range. 
Thee  lo  I  by  birthplace  of  Ihedi'cp 

onc«*  more; 
Sweel  odors  in  the  sea-air.  sweei  and 

siramje. 
.Shall  111!  the  home-siek  inariner 

of  the  shore; 
And.    listening    to  thy  murnnir.   be 

shall  deem 
Me  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  run- 
ning stream. 


/  ///■ 


(Hi.  Mb'.  1  brialln-  Iber  in  the  breeze, 
I   feel  Ibee  lioiuidinu  ill  UIV  Veins, 

I  see  lliei"  in  llie-i-  si  retelling  trees. 
These     Mowers,    this     Atill    rock- 
mossy  stains. 


BUY  A  NT. 


77 


This  stream  of  oflor  flowing  by, 
From   clo\er   field  and  clumiis  of 
pine, 
This  music,  thrilling  all  the  sky, 
From'  all   the   morning  birds,  are 
thine. 

Thou     fill'st    with    joy     this    little 
one. 
That  leaps  and  shouts  beside  me 
here. 
Where  Isar's  clay  white  rivulets  run 
Through     the    dark     woods    like 
frighted  deer. 

Ah!  must  thy  mighty  breath,   that 
wakes 
Insecl    and   bird,   and   flower  and 
tree. 
From  the  low-trodden  dust,  and  makes 
Their    daily   gladness,    pass  from 
me  — 

Pass,    pulse  by  pulse,   till   o'er    the 
gi'ound 
These  limbs,  now  strong,  shall  creep 
with  pain. 
And    this    fair   world   of  sight  and 
sound 
.Seem  fading  into  night  again  ? 

.'he  things,  oh,  Life!  thou  quickenest, 
all 
Strive  upward  towards  the  broad 
bright  sky, 
Upward  aud  outward,  and  they  fall 
Back  lo  earth's  bosom  when  they 
die. 

All   that    liave   borne   the   touch   of 
death, 
All    that    shall    live,   lie    mingled 
there, 
Beneath    that    veil    of    bloom     and 
breath. 
That  living  zone  'twixt  earth  and 


Thci-c   lies    mv    <liand)er    dark    aud 
still. 
The  atoms  tram])led  by  my  fcit. 
There  wait,  lo  take  the  place  I  till 
In    the    sweet    air    and    suiisliiiie 
sweet. 


Well,    I   have   liad    my    turn,    have 
been 
]\aised   from  tlie  darkness  of  the 
clod, 
And  for  a  glorious  moment  seen 
The    brightness    of    the  skirts  of 
God; 

And    knew    the    light     within     my 
breast, 
'I'hough  wavering  oftentimes  and 
dim. 
The    power,    the    will,     that    never 
rest. 
And  cannot  die,  were  all  from  Him. 

Dear  child!  1  know  that  thou  wilt 
grieve 
To  see  me  taken  from  thy  love. 
Wilt  seek  my  grave  at  fcjabljath  eve. 
And    weep,    and    scatter    flowers 
above. 

Thy  little  heart  will  soon  be  healed. 
And  being  shall  be  bliss,  till  thou 

To  younger  forms  of  life  iiuist  yield 
The  place  thou  lillst  with  beauty 
now. 

When  we  descend  to  dust  again. 

Where  will  the  linal  ilwelling  be 
Of    Thought    and    all   its   memories 
then, 
My    love   for  tliee,   and   thine  for 
me? 


THE   FIllNdKn    GEy'J\.l.\. 

Tiiof    blossom  bright  with  autuuui 

dew, 
.\nd  colored  with  the  heaven's  owk 

blue. 
That  ojHMiest  when  the  fpuet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  iind  siirings 

unseen. 
Or  cohunbiucs,  in  purjilf  dressed. 
Nod    o'er   the   grouml-bird's    hi^idii' 

nest. 


78 


BRYANT. 


Thou  waitest  late  and  coiu'st  aloiio, 

WIhmi  woods  an-  lnin>  and  hirds  are 
fU)\vn, 

And  frosts  and  shortening  days  por- 
tend 

The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  <|uiet  eye 
Look  tliroiigli  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Hiiie  — l)iue  — as  if  tli'at  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossonung  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  1  depart. 


THE   CliOWDBD  STItEET. 

Let  me   move  slowly  through    :he 
street, 
f'illed  with  an  (>ver-shiftiiig  tniin. 
Amid  I  lie  sound  of  steps  tiiat  Ix-at 
Tli<-  murmuring  walks  like  autumn 
rain. 

How  fast  thti  flitting  figures  come! 

The  mild,  the  lierce.  the  stony  face; 
.Some  hright  with  thoughtless  .smiles, 
and  some 
Where  secret  tears  have  left  their 
trace. 

They  jkuss  —  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest; 

To   halls   in    which    the    feast    is 
spread ; 
To  (•hand>ers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  <lead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair. 
Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to 
cheek. 

With  unite  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  <aiinol  speak. 

.\n<l  some,  who  walk  im-almnesshere, 
Shall    shudder   a-s    they    reach    the 
door 
Where  one  who  madi-  tln-ir  dwlling 
dear. 
Its    llower.    Its    light,    Is   seen   no 
more. 


Youth,  with  pale  cheek  ami  >lcndei 
frame, 
.\n<l  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine 
eye! 
(ioesl  thou  to  biiiltl  an  early  name, 
( )r  early  in  the  t;isk  to  die  '.* 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eagei  brow! 

Who  is  now  llultering  in  thy  Miare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  lower  they  now. 

Or  melt  tlie  glit It-ring  spires  in  air? 

Who    of    Ibis   crowii    to-night    sJiall 
tn-atl 
The     dance     till     daylight    gleam 
again '.' 
Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 
Who   writhe   in   throes   of   mortal 
]>ain  ? 

Some,    famine-struck,     shall     think 
liow  long 
The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the 
ligbt! 
And    some    who    tiaiint     amid     Ibe 
throng, 
.^bail   bide   in    dens   of   sbame    to- 
night. 

Each,   where  his  tasks  or  pleasures 
call. 
They  pass  and  heed  each  other  not. 
There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them 
all. 
in    His   large   love  and   boundless 
thought. 

These   struggling  tides   of   life   tbat 
seem 
In    wayward,    aimless    course     to 
tend. 
Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


riih.  h-r rriu:  life. 

IImw  shall  1  know  Ibee  in  the  sphere 
whieb  keeps 
Tbedisiinbodied  sjiiril.sof  the  ilead. 
When    all    of    Ibee    that    time   could 
wilbcr,  slecjis 
And   1"  lislu-s  among  the  dust  wo 
ireaU  'f 


BRYANT. 


79 


For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless 
pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence 
not; 
Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read 
again 
In    thy    serenest  eyes  the  tender 
thouglu. 

Will  not  tliy  own  meek  heart  demand 
me  tiierc  ? 
That   heart  whose  fondest  throbs 
to  me  were  given  ? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy 
prayer, 
And  must  thou  never  utter  it  in 
heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life- 
breathing  wind, 
In  the   resplendence   of  that  glo- 
rious sphere. 
And  larger  movements  of  the  unfet- 
tered mind. 
Wilt    thou    forget    the    love   that 
joined  us  here  ? 

Tlic  love  that  lived  through  all  the 
stormy  past. 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  na- 
ture bore, 
And   deeper  grew,  and   tenderer  to 
the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no 
more? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger 
light, 
Await  thee   there;  for  thou   hast 
bowed  thy  will 
[n  cheerful  homage  to   the   rule   of 
right. 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good 
for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I 
dwell. 
Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as 
heat  the  scroll; 
And    wrath    has    left  its  scar  —  that 
fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightfid  scar  upon  my 
soul. 


Yet  though  thou  wearest  the  glory  oi 
the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  be- 
loved name. 
The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and 
gentle  eye. 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate, 
yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,   in    that 
calmer  home. 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in 
this  — 
The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I 
become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of 
bliss  ? 


THE   CONQUEROR'S  GRAVE. 

Within  this  lowly  grave  a  Conqueror 
lies, 
And  yet  the  monument  proclaims 
it  not, 
Xor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath 
chisel  wrought 
The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never 
dies. 
Ivy  and  amaranth  in  a  graceful  sheaf. 
Twined  with  the  laurel's  fair,  impe- 
rial leaf. 
A  sinqile  name  alone. 
To  the  great  world  unknown. 
Is  graven  here,  and  wild  flowers,  ris 

ing  round. 
Meek   meadow-sweet  and  violets  of 
the  ground, 
Lean  lovingly  against  the  humble 
stone. 

Here  in  the  quiet  earth,   they   laid 
ai>art 
No  man  of  iron  mould  and  bloody 
hands. 
Who  sought  to  wreck  upon  the  cow- 
ering lands 
The    ])assioiis   (hat   consiuiied    bis 
restless  heart; 
1  Jut  one  (if  tender  si)irit  and  delicate 
frame, 
( itntlest  ill  mien  an<l  mind. 
Of  iieutle  woiiiaukiud, 


80 


BUY  ANT. 


Timidly  slirinking  from   tlu;   hrciitli 

of  hiiiine; 
OiH'  ill  whose  eyrs  the  smile  of  kind- 

lu'ss  iiiadf 
Its   hiiiint,    like   liowers  by  sunny 

brooks  in  May, 
Yet,  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain. 

a  shade 
Of    sweeter    sadness     eiiasid     the 

smile  away. 

Nor  deem  that  when   the  hand  that 

moidders  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,   realms  were 

chilled  with  fear. 
And  armies  mustered  at  the  sign. 

as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy 

East,  — 
Gray    captains    leaiiing    bands   of 

veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vulture's 

feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars 

that  gave 
The   victory   to   her    who    fills    this 

grave ; 
Alone  her  task  was  wrought, 
Alone  the  battle  fought; 
'i  hroiigh  that  long  stiifi-  her  constant 

hoi)e  was  staid 
On  (Joil  alone,  nor  looked  for  other 

aid. 

She  met    the  hosts  of  sorrow  with  a 
look 
That  altered  uoi  bi-ncath  tlie  frown 
tln'V  won  . 
And   soon   the   lowering  brood   were 
l.'imed,  and  look. 
Meekly,      her     gmtlf     rule,     and 
frowned  no  more. 
Her  soft  liand  jnit  aside  the  a.nsuults 
of  wrath. 
And  I'uhnly  lirokr  in  twain 
The  tirry  shafts  o!  pain. 
And    rent    tin*   nets  i>f   passion   from 
her  |(ath. 
I(y    that   victorious   hand    dcsjiair 
wa.ssliiin. 
Witli   love  she  van<|nisheil   bate  and 

r>Vcic-.i||ii' 

Kvil  with  i,'«Miil,  ill  her  great  Master's 
iianii'. 


Her  glory   is   not  of    this    shadow]* 

state 
Cilory  that  with  the  lleeting  season 

dies; 
Hut  wlujn  she  entered  at  the  sapphire 

gate 
What  joy  was  radiant  in  celviotial 

eyes! 
How    heaven's    bright   depths   witii 

soimding  welcomes  rung, 
And    ildWiTs   of   iuavi-n   by   shining 

hands  were  (lung; 
And  He  who,  long  before. 
Pain,  scorn,  and  sorrow  bore, 
The    Jlighty    SulTerer,    with   aspect 

sweet. 
Smiled  on  the   timid  .stranger  from 

his  seal; 
lie  who  retiuning,  glorious,  from  the 

grave. 
Dragged  Death,  disarmeil,  in  chains, 

a  crouching  slave. 

See,  as  I  linger  here,   the  sun  grnws 
low; 
Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  tlic 
night  is  near. 
Oh,  gt'iiile  sleeper,  from  tliy  grave  I 
go 
Consoled    though   sad,  in  hope  and 

yet  in  fear. 
ISrief  is  the  time,  I  know, 
Tiie  warfare  scarce  begun; 
^  el  all  may  win  the  triumphs  thou 

hast  won. 
Still    tlows  the   fount    who.se    waters 
stiengthened  thee; 
The  victors'  names  are  ye«  too  few 
to  till 
Heaven's    mighty    roll;   the   glorious 
armory. 
'I'hat  ministeri>d   to  thee  is  open 
still. 


[From  oil  itiirtiiiiihiil porm.] 
AS  KVKSISn   ItKVKKY. 

TiiK.   snnnner  <lay   is  closed  —the 
sun  is  set ; 
Well    Ibev     lia\e    done     their    ollice. 
those  briglii  li"iii^. 


BRYANT. 


81 


Tlie  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly 

out 
In  the  red  West.     The  green  blade 

of  the  ground 
Has  risen,   and  herds  have  cropped 

it;  the  young  twig 
Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the 

sun; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste 

have  hlown 
And  withered ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon 

the  soil, 
From    bursting    cells,   and   in   their 

graves  await 
Their    resurrection.       Insects    from 

the  pools 
Have  tilled  the  air  awhile  with  hum- 
ming wings. 
That  now  are  still  forever;  painted 

moths 
Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,   and 

died  again; 
The    mother-bird    hath    broken   for 

her  brood 
Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved   them 

from  the  nest. 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.     In 

bright  alcoves. 
In    woodland    cottages    with    barky 

walls,  [town. 

In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous 
Mothers   have  clasped  with   joy  the 

new-l)orn  babe, 
trraves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the 

shore 
Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 
Of  the  thronged  city,  have  been  hol- 
lowed out 
And    filled,    and    closed.     This   ilay 

bath  parted  friends 
Tha'    ne'er    before   were   parted;   it 

hath  knit 
New   friendships:   it   hath   seen   the 

maiden  plight 
Her  faitli,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him 

who  long 
Had  wooed :  and  it  hath  heard,  from 

lijis  whicli  late 
Were  ekxiueiit  of  love,  the  first  harsh 

Woid. 
That  told  the  wedded  one,  lier  jteace 

was  flown. 
Farewell     to     the     sweet     sunshine! 
One  glad  day 


Is  added  now  to  childhood's  merrj 

days, 
jVnd  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet 

age. 
SI  ill  the  fleet  hours  run  on;  and  as  I 

lean. 
Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps 

are  lit, 
J'.y  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and 

those  who  twine 
Flowers  for  the  .bride.     The  motliei 

from  the  eyes 
Of  her  sick   infant  shades  the  pain- 
ful light, 
And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn 

breath. 

O  thou  great  Movement  of  the 
Universe, 

Or  change,  or  flight  of  Time  —  for 
ye  are  one ! 

That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible 
scene 

Into  night's  shadow  and  the  stream- 
ing rays 

Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bear- 
ing me  ? 

I  feel  the  inighty  current  sweep  me 
on. 

Yet  know  not  whither.  Man  fore- 
tells afar 

The  courses  of  the  stars;  the  very 
hour 

He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or 
grow  bright ; 

Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and 
of  Death 

Come  unforewarncd.  Who  next,  of 
those  I  love. 

Shall  pass  from  life,  or  sadder  yet, 
sliall  fall 

From  virtue?  Strife  with  foes,  or 
bitterer  strife 

With  friends,  or  shame  and  genera! 
scorn  of  men  — 

Which  who  can  bear?  —  or  the  fierce 
rack  of  pain. 

Lie  they  within  my  jiatli  ?  Or  shall 
the  y»>ars 

Pu.sh  me,  with  soft  and  inolTcnsive 
l>ace. 

Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  mj 
age  ? 

Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 


82 


BURNS. 


Kvpii  now,  while  I  am  gloninsin  my 

Its     workings?      (Jently  —  so    liav« 

stit'imth. 

good  men  tanght  — 

Impenil    amimd    nw  ?      O!    beyond 

Gently,  and   withonl  grief,   the   old 

tliat  ItoiiriK', 

shall  glide 

In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  whicli  be- 

Into  the   new;    the   eternal   Mow   of 

gins 

things. 

At  thai  broail  tinesliolfl,  with  what 

Like   a  bright  river  of  tiie  fields   of 

fairer  forms 

heaven, 

Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and 

Shall  journey  onward   in  perpetual 

progress  clothe 

peace. 

Robert   Burns. 

TO  MAIiY  IS  HEAVES. 


Timi     ling" ring  star,   with  less'ning 
ray. 

Tiiat  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
A^aiii  tboii  uslirrest  inthe<!ay 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
()  .Mar\  I  dear  di'iKirled  shade! 

Wli.  IV  is  thy  iilace  of  blissful  rest? 
Seisi  rjioii  I  by  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

llrai(>i  thou  the  groans  that  rend 
liis  lireast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget? 

(an  1  forget  the  liallowed  grove. 
Where  by  tlie  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  |>arting  love? 
Kicrnity  will  not  efface 

Those   n-cords  dear  of  transjxjrls 
liast ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace; 

Ah!    little    Iboiighl    we    'twas    oiu" 
last ; 

.\yr  gurgling  kissed  bispelibled  shore, 

O'erhungwilb  wild  wonds,  lldckeii- 

ing  green; 

The    fragninl    birch.    ;ind    hawthorn 

hoar, 

Twinr'd  anmrous  round  lber.i|tlured 

scene. 

The     tlowers    s])ran;;    wanton    to    l>e 
prest. 
'I'be     liinls     sang    love    on    every 
spray,  — 
Till  loo,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Pro<laime.l    the    speed    of   wing<^il 
dav. 


Still   o'er  these  scenes  my   inenior>" 
wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care! 
Time     but     the     impression    deeper 
makes. 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper 
wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade! 

Where     is     thy     blissfid    place    (»f 
reiit  ? 
Seest  thou  lliy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 
nearest  thou  the  groans  that  rend 
his  breast  ? 


FOIt   A'    THAT  AS  I)  A'    THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  i>overly. 

That  bangs  bis  be.ul,  and  a'  thai  ? 
The  coward-slave,  we  jmss  him  by. 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  ami  a'  that; 

'i'be  raid;  i>  Imt  ilie  ^'uineastamji; 

'i'be  man's  the  ;;owd  for  a'  that. 

Wli.it     Ibo'     on      hnmely     fare     wo 
dine. 
Wear  hodden-gniy,  and  a'  that ; 
(lie  fools  their  silks,  and  kn.ives  their 
wine, 
.\  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  .ind  a'  tliat. 

'i'heir  tinsel  show,  and  a'  Ihatt 
Tile    lionesi    man.   llio'   e'er  fa4 
poor. 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


BURNS. 


83 


Ye  see  yon  bipkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wlia  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
U'lio'  hundieds  worship  at  his  word, 
lle"s  but  a  coof  tor  a"  that: 
For  a'  thai  and  a'  tliat, 

His  ribband,  star,  and  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  ami  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aljoon  his  might, 
(iuid  t'aitli,  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o' 
worth. 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that 'come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That   sens(;  and    worth,  o'er  a'   the 
earth' 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that 
For  a"  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that; 

riiat  man  toman,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


STANZAS  /\  PnOSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

Wiiv  am  1  loth  to  leave  this  earthly 
scene  I 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing 
charms  ? 

Some  drojjs  of  joy  with  draughts  of 
ill  bclween: 

Some  gleams   of  sunshine  'mid   re- 
newing storms; 

Is  it  departing  Jiangs  my  soul  alarms  '? 
Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark 
abode  ? 

For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in 
arms: 
I    lreiid)le   to   approarli  an   angry 
(;oil. 

-Vnd  justly    smart    beneath    his   sin- 
avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  "Forgive  my  foul 
otTenecI" 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 


But,  shoidd  my  Author  health  again 
dispense. 
Again  1  might  desert  fair  virtue's 
way; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray; 
Again   e.xalt    the  brute,  and    sink 
the  man; 
Then  how  should  i  for  heavenly  mer- 
cy pray. 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mer- 
cy's plan  " 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to 
temptation  ran  '.' 

O  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below! 
If  1  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease 
to  blow. 
And  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging 
sea; 
With    that   controlling  pow'r   assist 
ev'n  me. 
Those  headlong  furious  passions  to 
confine. 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be. 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed 
line; 
Oh,  aid   me  with  thy  help,  Onaiip- 
otence  Divine! 


TO  A   MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 

On  turning  one  down  witli  the  plougli,  in 
April,  ITSO. 

Wkk,  modest,  crimson-tijiped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  liour: 
For  1  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

.Mas!  it's  no  thy  nccbor  sweet. 
Tlie  bonnie  lark,  comiiauion  meet! 
Bending  tliff  "mang  the  dfwy  weet! 

Wi'  sprccklM  breast. 
When   upward-springing,   blythe,   tu 
greet 

The  purpling  east, 

f'auld  blew  the  liittcr-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humblu  birth; 


84 


BURNS. 


Ypt  olif'orfiilly  Ihoii  ijlintctl  foitli 

Amid  tlu'  storm, 
ScariM'  rt'iirM  above  llu'  paii'iit-cailli 

Thy  tciuicr  form. 

Th<>    rtaimting    llowers   our  gardens 

yi.'ld 
High  slu'ltcriiig  woods  and  wa's  maun 

shi.-ld, 
lint  llion  hfiicatli  tin-  random  bicld 

()"  clod,  or  stain*, 
Adorn^  llu'  histie  stibble-tield, 
I'nset'u,  alane. 

Th«Te,  in  thy  soanty  mantle  elad, 
Tliy  snawy  bosom  sunward  spread, 
'llion  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  Innnble  guise; 
I)ul  now  llir  sliare  upteai-s  thy  bed, 

And  low  tliou  lies! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweel  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
IJy  love's  sim])li<ity  iietrayed. 

And  u'liileless  trust. 
Till  she,  likf  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i"  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  oi-ean  Inekloss  starred  ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

( )f  iirudeni  lore, 
'I'ill    billows    ragf,    and    gales    blow 
hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Suili  fait'  lo  sulTrring  worth  is  given. 
Who  Ioiil;   with   wants  and   woes  has 

slli\  rli, 

lly  human  prldf  i>r  lunidiig  driven 

To  misery's  i>rink. 
Till,     «ri'n<-bcd    of    csrry    slay    but 
li'avfn, 

lb',  I  iiiiecl.  ^illk  ! 

Kvin  thou  who  itiourui--,|    llu-  daisv's 

fate. 
That  fate  is  thine  —  lio  dislani  dalt-; 
sii-in     Kuin's     pl')Ughs|iare     drives, 
•  lal.-. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till,    erushrd    luMK-atb    the    furrow's 
weiglit 

Shall  bf  Ihy  dtHjml 


joiix    i.y DEKsos'.  ^rY  jo. 

.John  .Viiibrsou.  my  jo.  .John, 

Winn  Wf  were  first  ac<|uent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Wnw  bonnic  brow  was  iircnt : 
lint  now  your  brow  is  beld.  .lohn. 

Your  locks  arc  like  the  snaw; 
Hut  l)le>siugs  on  yoiu'  frosty  puw, 

.iohn  Andcisoii.  my  jo. 

•  lohn  Anderson.  m\  jo.  .lohn. 

We  clamb  the  hill  ibcLiither; 
And  monic  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anilher: 
Now  We  miiun  lotti-r  down,  .lohn, 

Hut  hand  In  hand  we'll  go. 
And  slceii  ihegiibcr  at  the  foot, 

.lohn  Anderson,  my  jt). 


im:i:\\i:i:i.   i<t  .y.ixcY. 

Ai;  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever! 

Ac  farcwcel,  alas,  forever! 

]'ce|)  in  heart-wruiig  tears  I'll  pledge 

tln-e! 
AN'arrinu  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage 

thee! 
^\  ho    -hall  say   that   fortune  grieves 

iiim. 
^Vbil^•    I  be   star  <)f    hoi>e   she   leavc- 

biin  ! 
Me.  nac  eheerfu'  twinkle  liu'hts  me: 
Dark  despair  around  iM-nights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  i)artial  fancy, 
Xaething  could  r«-sist  my  Niiiioy; 
Ibil  to  see  her,  rtas  t»»  love  lier; 
l,o\e  bill  her,  and  love  forever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sac  kiiidlv. 
Had  we  never  loved  sac  blindly, 
\e\er  met  — or  never  palled, 
Wc  had  ne'er  been  broken  beiirhd  ! 

Fare  I  lice  wcel,  thou  (iisl  and  faire>,t'. 
Fare  I  bee  wcel,  tholi  best  alld  dearest  ! 
Tliiiic  be  ilka  jo\  and  lic.isure. 
I'eace,  enjoyment,  love.:ind  i)leasure, 
Ac  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ac  f.ileweel,  alas,  for  e\cl  I 

I)««ei>  in  bcarl-wriing  Ic.irs  I'll  )iledgR 

Ibci'.  |lbee. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wag« 


BUnNS. 


85 


[From  To  the  Unco  Guid.] 
GOB,    THE   ONL  Y  JUST  JUDGE. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

ytill  gentler  sister  woman; 
'l"ho'  tlK\v  may  sa'isi  '^  kciinie  wrani;. 

To  step  aside  is  human: 
One  point  mnst  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Wliy  they  do  it; 
.Vnd  just  as  lamely  ean  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

^\'ho  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us,  [tone. 

He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various 

P^aeh  spring  —  its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  doiie  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resinttd. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Vk  banks,   and  braes,  and  streams 
around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomeiy, 
Green  be  your  w  oods,  and  fair  your 
floweis. 

Your  waters  never  drumliel 
There  siniimT  iiist  unfald  her  robes, 

And  lliere  the  langest  tarry; 
Tor  there  I  took  my  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Maiy. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green 
birk. 
How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragiant  shade. 

1  clasped  her  to  my  bosom! 
'i  he  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 
.     Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie: 
'  'or  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life, 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi"  moniea  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

(Mir  i)arling  was  fu'  tender; 
And.  i)ledging  aft  to  nn-el  again, 

^Ve  tore  oursils  ;isunder; 
Hut  oh!  fell  (U'ath's  untimely  frost. 

That  nii)t  my  (lower  sac  tarly! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  eauld's  the 
clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Marv- 


Oh,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed    for    aye  the  sparkling 
glance. 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

'That  heait  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom  s  core 

Shall  live  my  IHghland  Ma  y. 


MAN    WAS  MADE    TO  MOURN. 
A  DIHGE. 

When  chill  Xovember's  surly  blast 

Made  tields  and  forests  bare. 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care; 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 

j\.nd  hoary  was  his  hair. 

Young  stranger,  whitlier  wanderest 
"thou.? 

Began  the  reverend  sage; 
Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  con- 
strain. 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage? 
Or,  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  wo(>s, 

Too  soon  thou  liast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  moiuii 

The  miseries  of  man. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Outsi)reading  far  and  wide, 
Where  lunidreds  labor  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride; 
I've  seen  yon  weaiy  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  return; 
And  every  time  has  added  j)roofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

O  man!  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time! 
Misspending  all  thy  jirecious  hours, 

T'hy  glorious  youthful  prime! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway; 

Licentious  i>assions  burn; 
Which  tenfold  force give  nature'!'  InW 

That  man  was  made  to  juourn 


86 


BUSH  NELL. 


Look  not  alimo  on  youthful  prinio, 

Or  luanliood's  active  niiglit; 
Man  tlxMi  is  usi-ful  to  hiskiiiii, 

Supportfil  is  liis  riju'ht. 
lUit  sec  liini  on  the  edm'  of  life. 

With  eaiv-s  ami  sorrows  worn; 
Then  ago  and  want,  oh  I  ill-matched 
l)air. 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  Pleasure's  lap  earest; 
Vel,  think  not  all  the  rieh  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  hlest. 
Hut,  oh!  what  crowds  in  every  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn. 
Thro'  weaiT  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Itegret,  remorse,  and  shame! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

'I'he  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn ! 

See  yonder  poor,  o'erlahored  wight, 

So  ahject.  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  Itegs  a  hrolher  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil; 


And  see  his  lordly  fellow-wonn 

'i'he  poor  petition  spurn, 
rnmindfid.  iho'  a  weeiiing  wife 

And  helpless  ottspring  mourn. 

if  I'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave- 
By  nature's  law  designed, — 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E'er  i>lanted  in  my  mind? 

If  not,  why  am  1  suhject  to 
His  cruelty  or  scorn  '.' 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Distiuh  thy  youthful  breast: 
This  partial  view  of  humankind 

Is  smely  not  the  last! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Ilail  never,  sure,  hcen  liorn. 
Had  there  not  iicen  some  rccomj)ensa 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn! 

O  death!    the    poor    man's    dearest 
friend. 

The  kindest  and  the  hest  I 
\Velc()nie  tlic  liour  uiy  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  r«-st ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  t«)rn; 
Hut,  oh!  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn  I 


Louisa   Bushnell. 


i>i:i.,i  y. 


T\sTK  the  sweetness  of  delaying. 
Till  the  hoiu-  sliall  mini'  for  saying 

That    I   love  you  with  my  sold: 
Have  you  never  thought  your  heart 
Kinds  a  something  in  the  |iarl. 

It  woulil  miss  from  out  tin-  whcde? 

In  this  rosebuil  you  have  given, 
Sleej>s  that  j)ei-fect  rose  of   heaven 

That   in   I'ancy's  garden  blows; 
Wake  if   not   by  touch  or  sound. 
Lest,    jM-rchance,    't  were    lost,    not 
found. 

In  the  o])ening  of  the  rose. 


De.ir  to  me  is  this  reflection 
( )f  a  fair  ami  far  |ierfectiou. 

Shining  through  a  veil   undrawn 
.\sk  no  <|uestion,  then,  of  fate; 
Vet   a  little  longer  wait. 

In  the  Ix'auty  of  the  dawn. 

Through   our  nmrnings,  veiled   and 

tender, 
.shines  a  dav  of  golden  splendor, 

\ev<>r  yet  fulliiled  bv  day; 
Ah!  if   love   be   made   complete. 
Will   i».  (ail   it.  l>e   Ml  sweet 

As  this  ever  sweet  delav? 


BUTLER. 


87 


Samuel   Butler. 


LOVE. 

LovK  is  too  great  a  happiness 
For  wretched  mortals  to  possess; 
For  could  it  hold  inviolate 
Against  those  cruelties  of  fate 
Which  all  felicities  below 
By  rigid  laws  are  subject  to, 
It  would  become  a  bliss  too  high 


For  perishing  mortality; 
Translate  to  earth  the  joys  above;. 
For  nothing  goes  to  Heaven  but  Love 
All  love  at  first,  like  generous  wine 
Ferments  and  frets  until  'tis  fine; 
For  when  'tis  settled  on  the  lee, 
And  from  the  impurer  matter  free, 
Becomes  the  richer  still,  the  older. 
And  proves  the  pleasanter,  the  coldei 


William   Allen   Butler. 


WORK  AND    WOnSHlP. 
"  Laborare  est  orare. "  —  St.  Augustine. 

Chaislemagne,    the   mighty    mon- 
arch, 
As     through     Metten    Wood     he 
strayed, 
Foiuid  the  holy  hermit,  Hutto, 
Toiling  in  the  forest  glade. 

In  his  hand  the  woodman's  hatchet, 
By  his  side  the  knife  and  twine, 

There  he  cut  and  bound  tlie  faggots 
From  the  gnarled  and  stunted  pine. 

Well  the  monarch  knew  the  hermit 
J'or  his  pious  works  and  cares. 

Am!  the  wonders  wliich  had  followed 
From  his  vigils,  fasts,  and  prayers. 

Much  he  marvelled  now  to  see  him 
Toiling  thus,  with  a.xe  and  cord; 

And  he  cried  in  scorn,  "  O  Father, 
Is  it  thus  you  serve  tlie  Lord  ?  " 

But  the  hermit  resting  neither 
Hand  nor  hatchet,  meekly  said : 

"  He  wlio  docs  no  daily  lalior 
May  not  ask  for  daily  bread. 

"Think  not  that  my  graces  slumber 
While  I  toil  througliout  tlie  day; 

For  all  honest  work  is  worship, 
cVnd  to  labor  is  to  pray. 


"  Think  not  that  the  heavenly  bless- 
ing 

From  the  workman's  hand  removes; 
Who  does  best  his  task  appointed, 

Ilim  the  Master  most  ajjproves.  " 

While  he  spoke  the  hermit,  pausing 
For  a  moment,  raised  his  eyes 

Where  the  overhanging  branches 
Swayed  beneath  the  sunset  skies. 

Through  the  dense  and  vaulted  for- 
est 

Straight  the  level  sunbeam  came, 
Shining  like  a  gilded  rafter. 

Poised  upon  a  sculptured  frame. 

Suddenly,  with  kindling  features. 
While  he  1)reathes  a  silent  jirayer. 

See,  the  hermit  throws  his  hatchet, 
Lightly,  upward  in  the  air. 

Bright  the  well-worn  steel  is  glean 
ing. 

As  it  flashes  through  the  shade. 
And  descending,  lol  the  sunbeam 

Holds  it  dangling  by  the  blade! 

'*  See,  my  son,"  exclaimeil  the  her 
mit,  — 

"  St'e  (h(>  token  heaven  has  sent; 
'I'hus  to  bunilil  ■.  jialifnt  cITort 

Faith's  mira.idous  aid  is  lent. 


88 


BUTLER. 


Toiling,  lioping,  oflon  fainting. 

As  wi>  labor,  Love  Divine 
Tlirou^h  tlie  sliaclowjs  pours  its  sun- 

iigiit, 

Crowns  the  work,  vou<lisafos  the 
sign!" 

Iloraewaril,   slowly,   w«nt    tlic  nion- 
ar.-h. 

Till  he  rt-arluHl  his  palaot;  hall. 
When*  he  strode  aiucug  his  warriors, 

lie  the  bravest  of  Iheui  all. 

Soon  the  Henedictine  Al)bey 
Rose  lu'siile  the  hermit's  eell; 

He.  iiy  royal  liain!:  iuvesletl, 
Uuled,  iis  abl)ot,  long  and  well. 

Now  beside  the  rusluTig  Danube 
Still  its  mined  walls  remain. 

'rciiill'^  lit'  tin-  ]nTIllit"'i  p.ilienre. 
Ami  ilif  /.eal  of  ('barlemau'Mc. 


Tin:  ni'STs  OF  aoirriii-:  asi> 

SCIIll.Li:!!. 

I'llis  is  (;(>ethe.  with  a  forehead 
i.ike  the  fabled  front  of  .love; 

In  its  massive  lines  the  tokens 
.Mnri'  iif  iiiajt-ty  than  love. 

I'his  is  .S<-liiller.  in  whose  features. 

With  their  passionate  ealm  regard, 
We  behold  till-  true  idral 

Of  the  high,  heroic  hard, 

Whom  the  inward  world  of  feeling 
Ami  the  outward  world  of  sense 

'I'd  the  endless  laliiir  summnn. 
And  llie  endless  reeompeiise. 

Thesi- an-  they,  siibliim- and  silent. 
From  wbdse  li\  in,'  li|is  have  nmg 

Wiifds  to  be  remend>ered  evei- 
In  the  iiobb-  (iermau  tongue; 

Thoughts  whose  iuspinitlon.  kindling 
Into  loftiest  speeeh  or  song. 

Still  ihrouu'h  all  (lie  listening  ages 
l'(jurs  its  torrent  swift  and  slnmg. 


As  to-day  in  sculptured  marble 
Sitla  by  sid«'  the  poets  stand. 

.So  tliev   stooil   in  life's  great  strug 
gle. 
Side  by  side  and  band  to  haml. 

In  the  ancient  (Jerman  city, 

Dowered    with    many   a   tloalhless 
name. 

Where  they  dweU  and  toiled  together, 
Sharing  each  the  other's  fame. 

One  till  evening's  lengthening  shad 
ows 

(iently  stilled  his  faltering  lips. 
Hut  the  other" .s  sun  at  noonday 

.Shrouded  in  a  swift  eclipse. 

There    their    names    are    household 
treasures. 

And  the  simiilcst  chihl  yon  niei-t 
(iuiilis  you  u  ll<le  the  house  of  (ioetho 

Fronts  upon  the  nuiel  street ; 

.Vnd,  hard  by.  the  modest  mansion 
Where  full  many  a  heart  has  fell 

.Memories  uncoutued  clustering 

li'ouiid  the  words,  "  ilere  Schiller 
dwelt." 

In  the  eburcliyard  botli  are  bmied, 
.Sirai;,'lit  b.'Y'.nd  the  narr()w  gate. 

In  the  mausoleum  sb-ejiiug. 

With   Duke  Charles,  in  sculptured 
stale. 

For  t\\v  mon.irch  loved  tlie  poets, 
Called  them  to  bim  from  afar, 

Woo«-d  them  near  his   court   to  lin- 
ger. 
And  Ihe  planets  .sought  the  star. 

lie.  his  larger  gifts  of  fortune 
With  tlieir  larger  fame  to  blend. 

Living  counted  it  an  honor 
That    they    named    him    as    their 
friend ; 

Dreatling  to  be  all  forgotten, 
.still  tinir  greatness  to  diviile. 

Dying  pr.iyed  to  have  his  (in.i  i 
Ihuled  <me  on  either  side. 


BUTTS—  BUTTERWORTH. 


89 


Bui  this  suited  not  llic  gokl-laced 

Ushers  of  the  royal  tomb, 
Where  the  princely  house'of  Weimar 

Slumbered  in  majestic  yloom. 

So  they  ranged  the  coffins  justly, 
Each  with  fitting  rank  and  stamp, 

And  with  shows  of  court  precedence 
Mocked     the    grave's    sepulchral 
damp. 


Fitly  now  the  clownish  sexton 
Narrow  courtier-rules  rebukes; 

First  he  shows  the  grave  of  (joethe, 
Schiller's     then,     and      last  —  the 
Duke's. 

Vainly  'midst  these  truthful  shadows 
Priile  would  daunt  her  painted  wing; 

Here  the  monarch  wails  in  silence, 
And  ihe  poet  is  the  king! 


Mary    F.    Butts. 


OTHEIi  MOTHEim. 

MoTHKH,  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Crooning  chi'.d-songs  sweet  and  low, 
Eyes  soft  shining,  heart  at  rest, 
Uose-leaf  cheek  against  thy  breast. 

Thinkest  thou  of  those  who  weep 
O'er  tlieir  liabics  fast  asleep 
Where  the  evening  de«s  lie  wet 
On  tlieir  l)roidered  coverlet, 

Whose  cold  cradle  is  the  grave. 
Where  wild  i-oses  nod  and  wave, 
Taking  for  their  blossoms  fair 
What  a  spirit  once  did  wear  ? 


Mother,  crooning  soft  and  low, 
Let  not  all  thy  fancies  go. 
Like  swift  birds,  to  the  blue  skies 
Of  thy  darling's  happy  eyes. 

Count  thy  baby's  curls  for  beads, 
As  a  swe(;t  saint  intercedes. 
But  on  some  fair  ringlet's  gold 
Let  a  tender  prayer  ha  told, 

For  the  mother,  all  alone. 
Who  for  singing  maketh  moan, 
AVho  doth  ever  vainly  seek 
Dimpled  arms  and  velvet  cheek. 


HEZEKIAH     BUTTERWORTH. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF   YOUTH. 
A  DREAM   OF   PONCE   I>E   LEON. 

A  STORY  of  Ponce  de  Leon, 

A  voyager  withered  and  old. 
Who  came  to  the  sunny  Antilles, 

In  quest  of  a  couutry  of  gold, 
lie  was  wafted  ])ast  islands  of  spices. 

As  bright  as  the  euKifald  seas. 
Where  all  the  forests  seem  singing. 

So  thick  were  the  birds  on  the  trees ; 
The  sea  was  clear  as  th*azure, 

And  so  deeji  and  so  i)ure  was  the  sky 
That  the  jasper-walled   city  seemed 
sliining 

Just  out  of  the  reach  of  the  eye. 


By  day  his  light  canvas  he  shifted. 
And   round   strange    harbors    and 
bars: 
By  night,  on  the  full  tides  he  drifted, 
'Neath  the  low-lianging  lamps  of 
the  stars.  [sunset, 

'Neath  the  gliuunering  gates   of  the 
In  the  twiii^lit  t'mpurpled  and  dim, 
The  sailors  uiilifted  their  voices, 

■\nd  sang  to  the  Virgin  a  liynui. 
"Thank  the  Lord  .'"said  De  Leon,  the 
sailor, 
At  the  close  of  the  rounded  refrain; 
"  Thank  the  Lord,  the  Almighty,  who 
blesses 
The  ocean-swept  banner  of  Si>ain! 


90 


BUTTERWORTH. 


Thf  shadowy  world  is  bt'hind  us. 

Tlie  shining  Cipiiiigo  bi-lore; 
Kadi  niorninL'  the  sun  risos  hrignter 

Un  ocean,  and  island,  and  shore. 
And  still  shall  mir  spirits  grow  lighter, 

As  iirosptTts  more  glowing  unfold; 
Then  on,  uierry  U'eiiT  to  C'ijiango, 

To   the   west,  and  the   regions  of 
gold!" 

There  came  to  De  Leon  the  sailor, 

Some  Indian  sages,  who  told 
Of  a  region  so  bright  thai  the  waters 

Weiesprinliled  with  islands  of  gold. 
And  they  adiied:  "  The  leafy  Bimini, 

A  fair  lami  of  grottos  antl  l)oweis 
Is  there;  and  a  wonderful  foinilain 

Upsprings    from    its    gardens    of 

lloW.MX. 

That  fountain  gives  life  to  the  dying, 

And  youth  to  the  aged  restores: 
They  nourish  in  beauty  eternal. 
Who   set    but    their   feet    on    its 
shore.s!" 
Then  answered  De  Leon,  the  sailor: 
"  1  am  withered,  and  wrinkled,  and 
old; 
I  wonlil  rather  discover  that  fountain 
Than  a  country  of  diamonds  and 
gold." 

Away  sailed  De  Leon,  the  .sailor; 

/.way  with  a  wonderful  glee. 
Till  tb<    bird-  w«  re  more  rare  in  the 
azure, 

The  dolphins  more  rare  in  the  sea. 
Away  from  the  sjiaily  Bahamas, 

Over  watiTs  no  s.iiior  h.id  seen. 
Till  ag.iin  on  his  wandering  vision. 

Hose  clustering  islands  of  green. 
Still  onward  In-  sjieil  till  the  liiec/es 

Were  laden  with  oilors,  .md  lo! 
A  <'0unlry  embedded  with  (lowers, 

A  e(»imlry  with  ri\ers  aglow! 
Mon-  bright  than  the  sunny  Antilles, 

More  fair  than  the  shady  Azores. 
"Thank  the  Lord!"  said  De  l-eon, 
the  .sailor. 

Ah  feasted  his  eye  on  the  shores, 
"We    liave   eome    lo   a   region,  my 
brothers. 

Mf)r<'  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  f.Milh; 
And  her''  ist 111-  lifi'-i;iving fountain,  — 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Voutb." 


Then  landed  De  Lt'on,  the  sailor, 

Infurled  bis  old  banner,  and  sinig 
Bu>  he  fell  very  wrinkled  and  with 
ered. 
All   around    was   so   fresh  and  si, 
>oung. 
The  palms,  ever  verdant,  were  bloom 
iiig, 
Their  blossoms  e'en  margined  tin 
seas; 
O'er  the  streams  of  the  forests  brigh; 
flowers 
Hung  deep  from    the  branches  of 
trees. 
"J'raise  the  Lord!"  sang  De  Lion, 
the  sailor; 
His  heart  was  with  rapture  aflame; 
And  he  said:   "Be  the  name  of  this 
reL'ion 
By  Florida  given  to  fame. 
'T  is  a  fair,  a  delectable  coimtry, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
I   soon    shall    partake   of   the  fotui- 
lain, — 
The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth  I" 

But  wamlered  De  Leon,  the  sailor. 

In  se.'irch  of  the  fountain  in  vain: 
No  waters  were  there  to  restore  him 

To  freshness  and  beauty  again. 
And  his  anchor  he  lifted,  and  nnu- 
mined. 
As  Mie  tears  gathered  fast  in  hi>  eye, 
"  1   must  leave  this  fair  lami  of  the 
flowers, 
do  baik  o'er  the  ocean,  and  die." 
Then  back  by  the  dreary  Tortugas, 

Ami  back  liy  the  shady  Azoies, 
lie  was  borne  on  the  storni-sniiltcn 
w.'iters 
To    the   calm   of    his   own   native 
slK>res. 
And  that  he  grew  older  and  older. 

Mis  footslejis  enfeeblrd  gave  prrwif. 
Still  he  thirsted    In  dreams   for  the 
fountain,  — 
The  bi'autiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 


One  day  the  old  lailor  lay  dying 
On  the  shores  of  II  tropical  isle. 

And    bis    h<ait  was  enkin<lled    with 

rapture;  [smile. 

And    bis    fare    lighted    up    with    a 


ni'JiuN. 


91 


He  thought  of  the  sunny  Antilles, 

He  thought  of  the  shady  Azores, 
Fie  thought  of  the  dreamy  Bahamas, 

He  thought  of  fair  Florida's  shores. 
An<V,  Avhen  in  his  mind  he  passed  over 

His  wonderful  travels  of  old, 
He  thought  of  the  heavenly  country, 

Of  the  city  of  jasper  and  gold. 
''Thank  the  Lord!"  said  De  Leon, 
the  sailor,  [the  truth, 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  the  light  of 
I  now  am  aiiproaching  the  fountain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 


The  cabin  was  silent:  at  twilight 
They   heard    the    birds  singing  a 
psalm. 
And  the  wind  of  the  ocean  low  sigh- 
ing 
Through  groves  of  the  orange  and 
palm. 
The  sailor  still  lay  on  his  pallet, 
'Neath   the  low-hanging  vines  of 
the  roof; 
His    soul    had    gone    forth    to    dis 

cover 
•  The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youlh. 


Lord  Byron  (George  Gordon  Noel). 


PROMETHEUS. 

Titan  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality, 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality, 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense? 
A  silent  suffer ing,  and  intense; 
The    rock,    the    vulture,    and    the 

chain. 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain. 
The  agony  they  do  not  show 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness, 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan  1  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between    the    suffering    and    the 

will. 
Which  torture  where  they  cannot 

kill; 
And  the  inexorable  heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tjTanny  of  fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  hate, 
Wliich  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate. 
Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die; 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 
Was  thine  —  and   thou  hast  borne  it 

well. 


All  that  the  Thimderer  wrung  from 

thee 
Was  but    the   menace  which   flung 

back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack : 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well    fore- 
see, 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell ; 
And  in  thy  silence  was  his  sentence, 
And  in  his  soul  a  vain  repentance. 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissenililed 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trem- 
Ijled. 

Thy  godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 
To  render  with  thy  precept  less 
The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 

And  strengthen   man  with  his  own 
mind; 

But  ballled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 

Still  in  thy  patient  energ>', 

In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 
Of  thine  impenetrable  spirit, 

Wliich  earth  and  heaven  could  not 
convulse, 
A  mighty  lesson  we  Inherit: 

Tluni  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

To  mortals  of  their  fate  and  force; 

Like  thee,  man  is  in  part  divine, 

A    troul)led    stream    from    a    pure 
source; 

And  man  in  portions  can  foresee 


92 


BYRON. 


1 1  is  own  funereal  destiny; 
His  wretchedncs-,,  .inil  his  resistance, 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence: 
To  wliich  his  spirit  may  oppose 
Itself  —  and  e(iual  to  all  woes, 

And  a  tirni   vill.  and  a  deep  sense, 
Whieh  i-vcn  in  torture  ean  descry 

Its  own  concentered  recompense. 
Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy. 
And  making  death  a  victoi^l 


unsN   roLDXFss    frit  APS    Tins 

aCFFEJlIXO    CLAY. 

Whex  coldness  wraps  this  suffering 
clay, 
Ah!    whither  straj's  the  immortal 
mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stray, 
Hut    leaves   its   darkened  dust  he- 
iiind. 
Thin,  unemhodied,  tloth  it  trace 
Hy   steps  each    planet's   heavenly 
way  ? 
Or  fdl  at  once  the  realms  of  sjiace, 
A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  i' 

Et<rtial.  Iioimdless,  tmdecayed, 

A   thought  unseen,  hut  seeing  air. 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall: 
Elach  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  dejiarti'd  years. 
In  one  hroad  glance  the  soul  hcholds. 

And  all  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  Treation  peojtied  earth. 

Its  eyes  shall   roll    through  chaos 
■  l)ack; 
And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had 
hirth. 
The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

lis  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  Im', 
While    sun    is   quenched   or  system 
breaks. 
Fixed  in  its  own  i-ternity. 

A  hove  or  I.ove,  TTope,  Hate,  or  Fear, 
It  lives  all  passioidess  and  pure: 

An  age  shall  (hei  like  earthly  yi-ar; 
Its  years  as  luoinenls  shall  endure. 


Away,  away,  without  a  \siug. 
O'er  all,  tlu-ough  all,  its  tlioughts 
shall  lly; 

A  nameless  and  eternal  thing. 
Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


SUN  OF  THE  SLEEPLESS. 

Sun  of  the  sleepless  I  melancholy  stai  I 
Whose    tearful    heam   glows  trenni- 

lously  far. 
That  show's!  the  darkness  thou  canst 

not  dispel, 
IIow  like  art  thou  to  joy  remeniljered 

well! 
So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other 

days. 
Which  shines,  hut   wamis  not    with 

its  powerless  rays; 
A  night-heam  sorrow  watches  lo  he- 
hold. 
Distinct,   hut     distant  —  clear  —  hut 

oh,  how  cold ! 


FA  HE    riIKE    WELL. 

FafM'.  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever, 
Still  forever,  i;\rv  tlicr  irrll ; 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
"(iainst  tiiee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

WonM  :hat  breast  were  bared  before 
thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain. 
While   that   i)lacid   sleep   came  o'er 
thee. 
Which    thou    ne'er     canst     know 
again: 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced 
over, 

Kverv  inmost  thoutrhf  could  show! 
Then  tliou  wouldsl  at  last  disc(»ver 

'Twas  not  well  to  siMirii  it  so. 

Throtigh  the  world  for  (his  C4inuuend 
ll — 

Though  it  smile  u|>on  the  blow, 
ICvcn  its  praises  nuist  ofTcnd  thee, 

F«jundcd  on  auotlu-r's  woe: 


BYRON. 


93 


Though  n\y  many  faults  defaced  me, 
Could  no  otln  r  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced 
me, 
To  inflict  a  cureless  woimd  ? 

Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not: 
Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 

But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  Jiot 
Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away: 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth  — 
Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding, 
beat.; 
And     the    undying    thought    which 
paineth 
Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  arc  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 


Anil  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather. 

When     our    child's    first    accents 

(low, 

Vill  thou  teach  her  to  say  "Father!" 

Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  prc^s  thee. 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayershall  bless 
thee. 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed! 

Should  her  iine.uiieuts  resemble 
Those  thou  never  mure  maysl  see. 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  know- 
est. 

All  7ny  madness  non(^  can  know; 
Ml  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 

\Vitlier,  yet  with  thee  they  5,^0. 

Kvery  feeling  hath  been  shaken: 
Pride,  which    not    a    world    could 
bow, 

Bows  to  thee  —  by  theo  forsaken, 
Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  uon  : 


But  'tis  done  —  all  words  are  idle  — 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 

Fare  thee  well !  —  thus  disunited. 
Torn  from  (U'ery  nearer  tie, 

Seared  in  heart,  and  lone  and  blighted, 
More  than  this  1  scarce  can  die. 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 

Etkrnal     spirit    of   the   chainless 
mind! 
Brightest    in    dungeons,    Liberty! 

thou  art. 
For    there    thy    habitation    is  the 
heart  — 
The  heart   which  love  of  thee  alone 

can  bind ; 
And   when   thy   sons   to  fetters  are 
consigned  — 
To   fetters,  and   the  damp  vault's 

dayless  gloom. 
Their  coimtry  conquers  with  their 
martyrdom. 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on 

eveiy  wind. 
Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad   floor  an   altar  —  for 
'twas  trod. 
Until  his  very  stejis  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,   as    if    thy   cold   pavement 
w(>re  a  sod. 
By    Bonnivard!  —  May    none    those 

marks  efface; 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


SHE    ir.tLKS   IN  BEAUTY. 

SnK  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

\\v\  all  lliat's  bestof  daik  and  bright 
Meets  ill  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Tims  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 

Whith  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had    half    impaired    the    namelesa 

LM-ace, 


M 


BYRON. 


Which  waves  in  evpr>'  ravon  tress, 
( )r  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Wliere   tliou^hts   serenely  sweet  ex- 
It  ress. 

lluw  pure,  liow  dear  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And   on   tliat  cheek,  and   o'er  that 
brow. 
So  soti,  so  cahn,  yet  elociuent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that 
nlow. 
But  t»'ll  of  tiays  in  fjoodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


jxscniPTiox 

ON   TIIK   MOXIMKXT  OF  THE  AUTnOR'S 
UiiU   HOAT8WAIN. 

W 1 1 KN  some  proud  son  of  man  returns 

t<j  earth. 
Unknown  to  glorv,  but    upheld    l)v 

l)irth, 
The  sculptor's  art  exalts  the  pomp 

of  woe, 
And  storied  urns  record  who   rests 

below; 
When  .ill  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is 

seen. 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  lie  should 

have  been. 

Hut  the  pour  doK,  in  life  the  lirmcsl 
friend, 

Tlie  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  de- 
fend. 

Wliuse  iHiijest  heart  is  still  his  mas- 
ter's own. 

Who  ljilioi"s.  fights,  lives,  breallies  for 
iiim  alone, 

I'ldiunored  falls,  unnoticed  all  his 
worth. 

Oiiiied  in  heaven  the  soid  he  held  on 
earth; 

While  man.  \.".in  inm-ct!  iiopes  to  be 
for.'iM-n, 

Ariij  iliiiii''  lilMiHelf  a  sole  ex<'luslv(? 
b.M\en. 

O  mail!  tlion  feeble  tenant  of  an 
hour, 


Debased   by   slavery,   or  cornipt  by 

])ower. 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee 

with  distrust. 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a 

cheat, 
Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  de- 
ceit! 
Hy  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name. 
Each  kindred   brute   might  bid  thee 

blush  for  shame. 
Ye !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple 

urn. 
Pass  on  —  it  honors  none  you  wish 

to  mourn ; 
To   mark   a   friend's   remains    these 

stones  arise; 
I  never  knew  i)ut  one  —  and  here  he 

lies. 


MA  ID   OF  AT  HENS. 

M.\ir>  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
(Jive,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  since  tlial  has  left  my  breast, 
K<*ep  it  now.  ami  take  the  rest! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

TLu»i  I'oi,  o6i  ay  i~ut.* 

By  those  tresses  nncouliiied. 
Wooed  by  each  .Kgean  wind; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheek's  blooming  tinge; 
IJy  those  will!  eyes  like  the  roe. 

By  that  lip  1  long  totasle; 

By  that  zoniMMicircled  waist; 

By  all  the  loken-llowers  that  tell 

\\  hat  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 

By  love's  allernate  joy  and  woe, 

}.'ji;  ^oi",  od(   rt)iiTui. 

Maid  of  Athens!  I  am  gone: 
riiink  of  me,  sweet!  uJK'ii  alonu. 
I'lioiigh  I  llv  to  islandxil, 
Athens  holils  my  heart  and  soul: 
('an  I  ica.se  to  love  thee  ?     No! 

*  Z<Jo  liioii,  ttiio  iitf;i|Mi.    1/7   '(/■.  ,  /  lore  you. 


BYRON. 


96 


EPISTLE    TO  AUGUSTA. 

My  sister!  my  sweet  sister!  if  a  name 
Dearer  au'l   purer  were,  it  should  be 

Miiiie; 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  i 

elaim 
No   tears,  but  tenderness  to  answei- 

mine : 
•  io  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the 

same  — 
A  loved  regret  whieh  1  ^^  ould  not  le- 

sign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  des- 
tiny,— 
A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home 

with  thee. 


The  first  were  nothing  —  had  I  still 

the  last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness; 
But  other  cli^imsand  other  ties  thou 

hast. 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make 

them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's, 

and  i)ast 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire'sfate 

of  yore, — 
He  had  no  test  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath 
been 

In  other  elements,  and  on  tlie  rocks 

Of  perils,  overlooked  oi-  unforeseen, 

1  have  sustained  my  share  of  worldly 
shocks. 

The  fault  was  mine;  nor  do  I  seek  to 
screen. 

My  errors  with  defensive  jjaradox ; 

I  liave  been  euiming  in  mine  over- 
throw, 

The  careful  pilot  of  'uy  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and   mine  be 

their  reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,   si  nee 

the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that 

whieh  marred 
The  gift,—  a  fate,  or  w  ill,  that  walked 

astray ; 


And  I  at  times  have  found  the  strug- 
gle hard. 

And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bontls 
of  clay : 

But  now  1  fain  would  for  a  time  sur- 
vive. 

If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  ar- 
rive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little 

day 
I  have  outlived,  an  J  yet  I  am  not  old  ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty 

spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which 

have  rolled 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts 

away ; 
iSomething  —  I  know  not  what  —  does 

still  uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience;  —  nut  in 

vain. 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  pur- 
chase pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  delianeo  slir 

Within  me  —  or  perhaps  a  cold  de- 
spair. 

Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  re- 
cur,— 

Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  aii-. 

(For even  to  this  may  change  of  soul 
refer. 

And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn 
to  bear,) 

Have  taught  me  a  strange  (juiet : 
whieh  was  not 

Tl>e  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot . 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In  happy  childhood;  trees,  an<l  tlow 

ers,  and  brooks, 
Whieh  do  remember  me  of  where   . 

dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  t« 

books. 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can 

nielt 
My   heart    with  recognition  of  theii 

looks; 
.\nd  even  at  moments  I  think  I  eoulil 

see 
Some  living  thing  to  love — but  none 

like  thee. 


9G 


BYBON. 


IIt'n»  an'  tlie  Aljjiiie  landscapes  which 

cn-aif 
A   luiul   lor  contcnii>lation,  —  to  ad- 

Iliilr 

Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date: 
!5ut     soiiH'tliiiiL;     worlhii-r    do    such 

scenes  inspire: 
lien   to  lie  lonely  is  nf>t  desolate. 
l"(jr  niti<h  1  view  which  1  could  most 

desire, 
.'vnd.  above  all,  aiake  1  tan  behold 
I.uvelifr,   not  dearer,  than  oiu"  own 

of. .Id. 

()  liiat  thou  well  but  with  me  I — but 

I  urow 
Till-  tool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
'{"ill' soiitmle  wiiieh  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  biU  one  re- 
gret ; 
There  may  he   others   which    1   less 

may  show;  — 
I  am  not  of  the  ]>laintive  mood,  and 

yet 
1  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  altered  eye. 

1  ilid   remind  ibce  of  our  own  tlear 
lake. 

\',\  tlieold   Hall  which  m.iy  be  mine  | 
no  more. 

I.ciiian's  is  fair;  but  think  not   I  for- 
sake 

The  sw«'et  renii-mbrance  of  a  dearer 
shore: 

.Sa<l  haviM-  Time  must  with  my  mem- 
ory make 

I!re  Ifiiil  or  Hiou  can  faile  these  eyes 
before; 

Tiiough  'ike  all  things  which   I   have 
l«  ved.  tln'y  are 

l;e-,igned  forever,  or  divided  tar. 

Tbe  world  is  all  liefore  me;  but  I  ask 
of  .Nature  that  with  which  she  will 
comply  — 


I  can  reduce  all  feelings  hut  this  one; 
.\nd  that  1  would  not :  —  for  at  length 

1  see 
Such  .scenes  as  Ibo.-e  wlierein  my  life 

begun 
The   eariiest  —  even    the   (udy   i>aths 

for  n>e. 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to 

shun. 
I  hail  been  better  than  I  now  can  he; 
the   passions   which   have   torn   me 

woidtl  have  slejd; 
1   had  not  suffered,   and   tfiou   hadst 

not  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  1  totlo? 
Little   with    Love,   ami   least   of   all 

with  Fame; 
.Vnd  yet  they   came   imsoupht,   and 

with  me  grew . 
And  made   me  all    which   they   can 

make  —  a  name. 
Vet  this  was  not  I  be  end  Iditlpmsuc; 
.Surely  1  once  beh<ld  a  nobler  aim. 
I'-iil  all  is  over —  1  am  one  the  more 
To  ballled  millions  which  liave  gone 

Ixfore. 

.\nd  f()r  the  future,  this  world's  fr- 
lure  may 

From  me  demand  but  little  of  my 
care; 

1  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day ; 

Having  survived  so  many  things  that 
were; 

.My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but 
the  prey 

Of  ceaseless  vigils;  for  I  had  the  shaie 

Of  life  which  niijjht  have  filled  a  cen- 
tury, 

IJefort-  its  fourth  in  time  had  jiasseil 
me  by. 

.Villi  for  the  remnant   which  may  be 

to  <'ome 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  I'a'-l  1  feel 
It  is  but  in  lier  summer's  sim  to  bask,  j  Not      thankless, —  for      within      the 

crowdiil  siuu 


I'll  mingle  with  the  ipiid  ofliir  sky. 

To    see    her   gentle    face    without    a  I  Of     struggle"..     bai>pine,ss     at     linje.s 


ma-.k. 


would  steal. 


.\nd  never  ga/.e  on  it  with  apathy.  .\n<l  for  tbe  |iresenl.  I  would  not   be- 

slie  was  my  early   friend,  and   now  ninnb 

xhall  Im'        "  .My    feelings    farther.     Nor   shall     I 

My  itittler  —  till  1  look  again  on  thee.  1  conceal 


BYRON. 


97 


That  with   all  this  I  still  can  look 

aroiiiid, 
And  worship  Xaturo  with  a  thonght 

profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy 
heart 

I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 

AVe  were  and  are  —  1  am,  even  as 
thou  art  — 

Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  re- 
sign ; 

It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart. 

From  life's  commencement  to  its 
slow  decline 

We  are  entwined  —  let  death  come 
slow  or  fast, 

The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures 
the  last. 


[From  The  Giaour.] 
THr:  FI/iST  DAY  Oh    DEATH. 

He  who    hath    bent    him    o'er   the 

dead 
Jire  the  first  day  of  death  is  lied, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nolliingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  disiics^, 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty 

lingers). 
And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air. 
The  rapture  of  repose  tliat's  there. 
The    fixed    yet     tender    tiaits    that 

streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And  —  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye. 
That  tires  not,  wins  not,  wei'ps  not 

now. 
And  but  for  that  chill  changeless 

brow, 
•Vhcre  cold  ( )l)sLruct  ion's  apaihy 
.Apjials  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
-\s  if  to  liim  it  could  imjiart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  ujion; 
Yes,  but  for  fliese  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  (jne  treacherous 

hour. 
He    slill    might    dotdtt    the    tyrant's 

l)0\ver: 
So  fair,  so  calm,  s<i  softly  sealed. 
The  first  last  look  by  death  revealed! 


[From.  The  fiifumr.] 
LOVK. 

Yi:s,     Love     indeed    is    light    from 
heaven ; 

.\  spark  of  that  innnortal  fire 
With  angels  shaivd,  by  Allah  given, 

'I'o  lifi  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
Bui  heaven  itself  descends  in  love; 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
To    wean    from     self    each    sordid 

thought ; 
A  ray  of  Him  who  formed  the  whole; 
A  gloiy  circling  round  the  soul! 


\_From  The  Dream.] 
SLEEP. 

OuK  life  is  twofold!    Sleep  hath  its 

own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  mis- 
named 
Death  and  existence:  Sleep  hath  its 

own  world, 
.\nd  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality. 
And    (hvanis   in  their    development 

have  breath. 
And    tears,    and   tortures,   and    the 

touch  of  joy; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  w  ak- 

ing  thoughts. 
They   take   a   weight    from  off    our 

waking  toils. 
They  do  divide  our  being;  they  be- 
come 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time. 
And  look  like  heralds  of  .'tcrnity; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past  — 

thev  speak 
Like  sibyl's  of  the  future;  they  have 

])ower  — 
The  tyranny  of  i)leasure  and  of  pain; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not  — 

wliat  they  will. 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's 

gone  by. 
The   dream    of  vanislied    shadows  — 

Are  they  so? 
Is  not   the  past  all  shadow?     What 

are  they  ? 


98 


BYRON. 


C'rralions  «)f  the  mind  i'  —  Thf  iiiiii;! 

rail  iiiaU<- 
.^iibsUiiiic,  ami  people  jdaiu'ts  i>f  its 

OAll 

\Vi  li  !Min,'.s  l)n;;httM-tlianlKivei)ft'ii, 

ami  liivi! 
A  bn-atli  to  form  wiiich  can  outlive 

ail  ll.'sh. 
I    would    recall    a    vision    wliicli    I 

dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep  —  for  in   itself  a 

tlioiiicht, 
A  shimherin-;  thought,  is  capable  of 

years, 
And  curdles  alonijlife  into  one  hour. 


[From  Ihin  Juan.l 

THE  ISLES   OF  GliEECE. 

Tin:    isles  of  Greece,   the    isles   of 
(Jreecc!  [sunit, 

AVhere  hurniin,'  Sapjdio  loved  and 
Where    grt  w    the    arts   of   war  and 
JMai-e. — 
^\  here     I)elos    rose    and     I'lurhus 
spnnii;! 
Kiernal  summer  gilds  them  yel, 
r>iil  all,  except  their  siui,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  T<ian  imise, 

'I  In-  h(>ro's  har!>,  the  lover's  lute. 
Htvc    foinid    the    fame   your  shores 

refuse: 

'llieir  place  of  hirlh  alone  is  mule 
To  soriils  which  echo  further  west 
'Ihan    your    sires'    "Islands   of    tin; 

lUest." 

riie  1 uilains  look  on  Marallion  — 

And  .Manilhon  hioks  on  the  si-a; 
And  mnsin'4  tliere  an  lioin-  alone. 
1  driMUii  d  thai   (Jreece  might,  still 
he  fre.-; 
For  standing  on  the  I'ersian's  grave, 
I  -ould  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

\  kill':  sat  on  the  rocky  hrow 
\\"hich  looks  o'i'r  se;»-l>orn  Salamis: 

\ii  I  vhii>H,  hy  tliollsallds,  lay  helou, 
\nd  men  in  n.iiions;  — all  were  his! 

Ileconnled  I  hem  at  break  of  day  — 

And   when  the  sun  Bet,  where  \vi  re 
they  'f 


And  where  are  they?  and  wliere  art 
thou. 

My  country  '.'  ( )nthy  voiceless  shon.' 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 

The  heroii-  boMtm  beai~  no  more! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  tlivine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked   among  a  fettered 
race, 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 
For  (Jreeks  a  blush  —  for  (Jrcece  » 
tear. 

Must  we.  but  weep   o'er  days   mor' 
blest  ? 
Must  VI'  but  blush  ?  —  ( )ur  fathers 
Ide.l. 
Karth!    tender    back    from   out    thr 
breast 
A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dea<l! 
(  M"  liie  tliree  hundred  grant  but  three. 
To  make  a  new  Tlierino]iyl:e! 

What,  silent  still  ?  an<l  silent  all  ? 

Ah!  no;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall. 

.\nd  answi-r.  "  Let  one  living  head, 
liut  one  arise.  —  we  come,  we  come !  " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dundi. 

in     vain  —  in     vain;      strike     other 
chords; 
I'ill    high    the   cup    with    Samian 
wine! 
l.cave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine' 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
Mow  answers  e.icb  bold  Itaccbanal! 

Vou  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  ;is  yet. 
Where    is    the     J'yrrhic     phaluax 
gone'.' 

Of  two  such  li-sscdis,  why  forget 
Tlie  nobler  and  the  maidierone? 

^'^»u  hav<*lhe  lellersCaiimns  gavi", — 

Think  ye  h.'  meant  them  for  a. slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wind 
We  will  not  think  of  themes  liku 

these! 


BYRON. 


99 


It  made  Anarreon's  song  divinp: 
JIo     sorvoil  —  but     sei-ved      Poly- 
crat(\s  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrjinen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 
Was  freedom's    best  and   bravest 
friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 
Oh !  thi  t  the  present  hour  would 
lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill    high    the    bowl   with     Samian 
wine ! 
On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
-vnd    there,   perhaps,   some  seed  is 

sown, 
The  Ileracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have   a  king  who  buys  and 
sells; 
'In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells: 
iJut  Turkisli  force  and  Latin  fraud 
iVould   break   your  shield,    however 
broad. 

Fill    high    the    bowl    with     .Samian 
wine ! 
Our    virgins    dance    beneath   the 
shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 
My  own  the  burning  tcar-droji  iav(>s. 
To   think  sucii   l>n'a>l><  mint   siirkle 
slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marble  steep. 
Where     nothing    save    the   waves 
and  1 
.May  liear  our  mutual  niiirnnirs sweep: 
'I'licre.  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and 
die; 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 
Dash    ilown    yon    cup    of    .Samian 
wine! 


[  From  the  Prophecy  of  Dante.'] 
GEXIUS. 

Mamv    are    poets   who   have   never 

penned 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance 

the  best; 
They  felt,  and  loved  and  died,  lint 

would  not  lend 
Their    thoughts   to  meaner  beings; 

they  compressed 
The  God  within  them,  and  rejoined 

the  stars 
Unlaurelled    upon   earth,   but    far 

more  blessed 
Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the 

jars 
Of    passion,    and     their    frailties 

linked  to  fame, 
Conquerors   of  high    renown,    but 

fidl  of  scars. 
Many  are    poets,    but    withoiU    the 

name; 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  ovcifeeling  good  or  ill ;  and 

ain) 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate 
And    be   the  new   Prometheus  of 

new  men, 
Bestowing   fire  from  heaven,  and 

then,  too  late. 
Finding    the    pleasure  given    repaid 

with  pain. 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the 

bestower. 
Who,   having    lavi>;hed    his    high 

gifi  in  vain 
Lies  chained  to  bis  lone  rock  by  the 

sea-sliore! 
So  be  it;  we  can  i)ear. —  But  thus 

all  they 
"Whose  intellect  is  an  o'ermaslering 

JIO  we  r. 
Which   still  recoils   fiom  ils  encnm- 

bering  clay. 
Or  lightens  it  to  siiirit,  whatsoe'er 
The    foiuis   whicii    their  creation 

may  essay. 
Are  bards;  the  kindliil  niarble">  bust 

may  wear 
More    poesy    ujion     its    speaking 

brow 
Than  aught  less  than  the  Homeric 

page  may  bear: 


100 


BYRON. 


ttiic  ni>l»lp   stroke   with   a   wluilc  lifo 
iniiy  .;;lo\v. 

Or  deify  tlie  canvas  till  it  sliiiie 

With   iu-anty  so  surpassinu  all  be- 
low. 
Th.it  they  who  kneel  to   idols  so  di- 
vine 

IJreak  no  commandment ,  for  hiic'i 
heaven  is  there 

Transfused.     translignnite<l  :    and 
tlie  lini> 
Of  poesy  which  peoples  hnt  tlie  air 

With   thoiii;ht   and   beings  of  onr 
thouv'ht   rel!e<-i.d. 

fan  ill)  no  more:  then  lei  the  artist 
share 
Tliejialm:  he  shares  the  peril,  and 
dejected 

Faints   o'er  the  labor  imapjiroved 
—Alas! 

Despair  and  penius  are  too  oft  con- 
nected. 


[From  Chilile  /IiukIiL] 

TIIK  MISKHYOF  h.XCKSS. 

TO    I.NKZ. 

\.\v.  smile  not  at  my  snllen  brow. 
Alls!  I  eannot  smile  again: 

Vi'l  Heaven  averl  that  ever  thon 
SbiMdilst  weeji,  and  haply  weep  in 
vain. 

And  flost  tlion  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  be.ir,  corroding  joy  and  y<»nili  '.' 

And  wilt  tlmn  vainly  seek  lo  know 
A    panL,',   even    thon   nnisl    fail    li> 
soothe ?  . 

il  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 
Niir  l<iw  ambiiion's  honors  lost, 

That  bids  me  hialbe  my  pnsent  stale. 
And  lly  frum  all  I  \m\/.i-  the  mosi  I 

It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  .ill  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see; 

''<)  me  no  pleasure  lleanly  brings: 
Thine  fVfs  have  scuree  a  charm  for 
mi-. 


Il  is  that  settled,  ceaselcs  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

ihat  will  not  look  beyojul  the  tomb, 
And  cannot  hope  for  rest  liefore. 

What  exile  from  himself  can  tlee  ? 
To  zones,  though   more  and  more 
remote. 
.Still,  still  pursues,  where  er  I  be. 
The    blight     of    lift — the   deinou 
Thought. 

Yet.  otliers  rajit  in  i>leasure  seem, 
And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake; 

Oh!     may    they    still    of     transport 
dream, 
And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake 

Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to 

g'». 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know. 

What  e'er  betides,  I've   known  the 

worst. 

What   is   that   worst  '.'    Nav.  do  not 
ask  — 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear: 
Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  unmask 
Man's   heart,   and    view   the   Hell 
that's  there. 


I  l-ri'iii  Ihilile   lliirntd] 

Ai'()sri:(>)'iih:  to  rm:  ockas. 

TliKltl-;  is  a  ple.isurc  in  Ihe  pathless 

woods. 
There    is    a    r.iiiluie    on    the    lonely 

shore. 
There  is  soeiety,  wliere  none  intrudes. 
Hy    Ihe  deep  sea.   and    music    iu  its 

roar: 
I  love  not  .Man  the  less,  but    .Nahire 

more. 
From  IhcHc  our  interviews,  in  \\liich 

I  sU'al 
From  all  I  may  be.  or  have  been  be- 
fore. 
To  mingle  wiili  the  fniverse,  and  feel 
NVhat  I  e.ui  \\i''vT  c.Npu'ss,  yet  <  .innot 

all  conceal. 


BYRON. 


101 


I'loll  on,    tlioii  deep   ami   dark   hlue 

Ocean  —  roll  I 
Ten  tlioiisaml  llects  sweep  over  thee 

HI  vain; 
Man  Inarks  the;  earth  with  ruin  —  his 

control 
Stops    with    the    shore;  —  upon   the 

watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth 

remain 
A  sliado'-  of  man's  ravage,  save  his 

own, 
AVhen,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of 

rain, 
lie  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bub- 
bling groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  imcof- 

fined,  and  unknown. 

The  armaments  which  tliunderstrike 

the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations 

((uake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  cap- 
itals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs 

make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  tlice,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy 

flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves. 

which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of 

Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in 

all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,    Greece,    Kome,    Carthag(>, 

what  are  they  ? 
Thy  Avattrs  washed  them  power  while 

they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores 

obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their 

decay 
lias  dried  up  realms  to  deserts:  — 

not  so  thou;  — 
I'mhangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves' 

play  — 
Time    writes    no    wrinkle   on    thine 

azure  brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  belicld.  thou 

roUest  now. 


Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses  itself  in  lenipcsts;  in  all  time, 
Calm    or    convulsed  —  in    breeze    or 

gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ,  —  boundless,   endless, 

and  suljlime  — 
The  image  of  eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy 

slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made : 

each  zone 
Obeys  thee:  thou  goest  forth,  dread, 
fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and 

my  joy  [to  be 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast 

Borne,    like    thy    bubbles,    onwaid: 

from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they 
to  me  I  sea 

Were  a  delight:  and  if  the  freshening 
Made  them  a  terror  —  "twas  a  pleas- 
ing fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And,  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and 

near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  — 
as  I  do  here. 


[From  Chiltfr  IJm-nliL^ 

CALM   ylND    TEMPKST    AT   X  Id  JIT 
ON  LAKE  LKAf AX  (GENEVA). 

Clear,   placid    Leman!  thy   con- 
trasted lake, 
With  the  wide  world  I  dwelt  in  is  a 

thing 
Wliich  warns  me,  with  its  stillness, 

to  forsake  [spring. 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once 

1  loved 
Torn    ocean's    roar,    but    thy   soft 

nuuinuring 
Sounds  swe(>t  as  if  a  sister's  voice 

reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  delights  shoultl  e'er 

have  been  so  moved. 


102 


BYRON. 


It  is  the  hush  of  night,  aud  all  bc- 

All  heaven  and   earth   are   still  — 

tWt't'll 

tbougli  not  in  sleep. 

Thy   iiuimiii   and   the   inounUiins, 

BiU  breathless,  as   we  grow  when 

du>k.  yi't  cli-ar. 

ft-eling  most ; 

Mtlluwiil    and    niingliny,   yet   dis- 

And silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts 

tinctly  seen, 

too  deci>:  — 

.Save  darkened   Jura,   whose   capt 

All   heaven  and  earth  are  still:  — 

lu'iglits  appear 

From  the  high  host 

Preeipitousiy  steep;    and   drawing 

Of  stars,   to   the   lulled   lake    and 

near 

mountain-coast. 

Tiiere  lucathes  a  living  fragrance 

All  is  concentred  in  a  life  inten.se. 

from  the  shore, 

Wlicri'  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf 

Of  llowt-rs  yet  fresh  \s  ith  childhood ; 

is  lost, 

on  the  ear 

But   bath   a   i)art   of  being,  and  a 

Drops  the   light  drip  of   the   sus- 

sense 

pended  oar, 

Of  that  which   is  of  all  Creator  and 

(»r  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good- 

defence. 

night  carol  more. 

Tiien   stirs  tlie  feeling  intiniti',  so 

He    is  an    evening    reveller    \\\w 

fell 

makes 

In   solitude,    where    we  are    leaul 

Ills  life  an  infancv,  and  sini^s  his 

alone: 

nil; 

A  tnitb,  which  through  our  being. 

At   intervals,  some  bird  from  out 

then  doth  melt. 

the  brakes 

And  i>nrilies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone. 

Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is 

Tbesoul  and  source  of  music,  which 

still. 

makes  known 

There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on 

Eternal     harmony,    and    sheds    a 

the  hill, 

chann. 

I5nt  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight 

Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  stone. 

dews 

Binding  all  things  with  beauty ;  — 

All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 

't  Would  disarm 

Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they 

Thesi)ectrc  Dcatli,  bad  he  snltstantial 

infuse 

power  to  bann. 

Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  sjiirit 

of  her  hues. 

Not    xainly    did  the  I'arly   Tersian 

make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the 

Y*'  stars!  which  arc  the  jioctry  of 

heaven. 

peak 

If  in  yotn-  bright  leaves  we  would 

( >f  eartb-o'crga/.ing  mountains,  an<l 

re.-id  Ihc  fate 

thus  take 

Of  UH'U   and  empires,  —  'tis  to  be 

A  fit  and  luiwalled  temple,  there  to 

f(Hl,'i\e|l. 

seek 

i'liat  in  our  as]iirations  to  be  great. 

The  Spirit   in  whose  honor  shrine* 

Our  de^linies  o'erleap  their  mortal 

arc  weak. 

state, 

rprcar«-d  of  human  hands.    Conic, 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for 

and  compare 

ye  are 

Colmnns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth 

A  beauty,  and  a  mystery,  and  create 

or  (;reek. 

In  u.H  -»u<b  lov«>anil  reverence  from 

With    .Nature.s   realms  of  worship, 

afar. 

earth  and  air. 

That  forimie,  fame.  po«i'r.  life,  have 

Nor    (ix  on   fond   abodes  to  vircuip- 

named  lhem»elviiti  .'islar. 

scribe  thy  pniyer! 

BYRON. 


103 


The  sky  is  changed  ?  —  and  sueh  a 

change!    O  night, 
.vnd  storm,   aii.l  darkness,  ye  are 

wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is 

the  light 
of  a  dark  eye  in  \\oman !  Far  along 
From  peak  to   peak,   the  rattling 

crags  among. 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!    Not  from 

one  lone  cloud. 
But     every    mountain    now   hath 

found  a   tongue, 
And    Jura  answers,   through   her 

misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to 

her  aloud ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night:  —  Most 
glorious  night ! 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let 
me  be 

A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  de- 
light. — 

A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of 
thee! 

How  the  lit  lake   shines,  a  phos- 
phoric sea, 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to 
the  earth! 

And  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and 
now,  the  glee 

Of  the   loud  hills  shakes  with   its 
mountahi-mirth, 
A.S  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young 
earthquake's  birth. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake, 
lightnings!  ye! 

With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thun- 
der, and  a  soul 

To  make   these  felt,  and   feeling, 
well  may  be 

Things  tliat  have  made  me  watch- 
ful; the  far  roll 

Of    your  departing  voices,    is   tlie 
knoll 

Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I 
rest.  goal  ? 

Hut  where  of  ye,  O  tempests,  is  the 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human 
breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles, 
some  high  nest! 


Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is   most  within  me-  — 
could  1  wreak 

My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and 
thus  throw 

Soul,  heart,   mind,  passions,  feel- 
ings, strong  or  weak. 

All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and 
all  I  seek, 

Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe - 
into  one  v.ord. 

And  that   one   word    were    light- 
ning, I  would  si)eak; 

But  as  it  is  1  live  and  die  miheard. 
With    a    most    voiceless      thought 
sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 


[From  Childe  Harold.] 
bYRON  S  HEilAliKAIiLE  FROl'llECY. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not 

that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  suffered :   let 

him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my 

brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave 

it  weak; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words 

disperse. 
Though  1  be  ashes;  a  far  hour  shall 

wreak  [verse. 

The  deep  iirophetic  fulness  of  this 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  moim- 

tain  of  my  curse! 

That  curse  shall  be   Forgiveness. — 

Have  I  not  — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth!  behold 

it.  Heaven  I  — 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my 

lot? 
Have  I  not  suffered  things  to  be  for- 
given ? 
Have  1  not  had  my  brain  seared,  my 

heart  riven, 
Hopes  sai>i)ed,  name  blighted.  Life's 

life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
I'xcausf  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  iot>  iiUo  the  souls  of  tliose  whom 

1  survey. 


104 


BYIiON. 


From  nii'^lify  wrongs  to  potty  pt^rfidy 

Have  I  not  <vvn  wliat  human  things 
coulii  ilo  ■.' 

From  the  loutl  mar  "f  foaming  cal- 
umny 

To  tht>  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltrv 

fl'W. 

And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile 
crew, 

The  Janus  glance  of  whose  signifi- 
cant eye. 

Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would 
seem  true, 

And  without  utterance,  save  the 
shrug  or  sigli, 

Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speech- 
less obloquy. 

But  1  liave  lived,  and  have  not  lived 

in  vain: 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood 

its  tirr. 
And  my  I  rami-  i)erish  even  in  con- 

•liicring  pain; 
But  there  is  tlial  within  me  that  shall 

tire 
'I'orturt-  and   Timr,  ami  brratlie  wluii 

I  I'xpirr. 
-Something    unearthly,    which     they 

deem  not  of 
Like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute 

lyre. 
Shall  on  their  softened  spirits  sink, 

and  move 
In  heiirts  all  rocky  now  the  late  re- 
mote of  love. 


[Ffm  ihilth-  Uiirol,!.] 

OX/:  f/iFsr.vc/:  u'.i\r/\(). 

TuF  castled  cnig  of  Draehenfels 
Frowns  o'er  the   wiije  and   winding 

|{hin.', 
Whose  lireasi  (if  wat«'rs  broadly  swells 
Between  the  bank.s  whi<'h   l)ear  the 

vine. 
An  I  hills   all    rich    with    l)Iossomed 

trees. 

And   flelils   whieh  promise  corn   and 
ssine, 


And  scattered  cities  crowning  these. 
Whose  far  white  walls    along  them 

shine. 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  whicli  i  siiould 

see 
With  double  joy  wert  tfiou  with  me. 

And    peasant  girls,  with  deep-bhic 

eyes. 
And  hands  which  otTer  early  flowers 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  lowers 
Tlirough  green  leaves  lift  their  walls 

of  gray 
And  many  a  rock  which  slee|iiy  low- 
ers. 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers 
But  one  tiling  want  these  banks  of 

Khine,  — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  minel 

1  send  the  lilies  given  to  me; 
'I'hough  long  before  thy  hand   they 

touch, 
I    know   that    they    must    withered 

be. 
Hut  yet  reject  them  not  as  such : 
l-'or  i  have  cherished  them  as  tiear 
Because  they    yet  may  meet  thine 

eye. 
And   guide  thy  soul   to  mine  even 

here. 
When  Ibou  lii'hold'st  them  drooping 

nigh. 
And  knowest   them  gathered  bv  the 

Hhine. 
And  otTcretl  fmm  my  heart  to  thine. 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 
The  charm  of  Ibis  enchanted  ground. 
And  all  its  thou-iaiid  turns  disclose 
Some  freslier  in-aiity  v.uying  roimd: 
The  baiiL,'liliest  breast  its  wish  miglil 

IioiukI 
Through     lift-     t»)     dwell     delighted 

here; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  fouiul 
To  nature  and  to  m<'  so  dear. 
Could    thy   di-ar    eyes    in    following 

mine 
Still   sweeten    more    these  l>anks  «ji" 

Ubine! 


BYRON. 


105 


[Prom  Childe  Harold.] 
GREECE. 

And  yet  how  lovely  iu  thine  age  of 
'  woe, 

Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men ! 
art  thou! 

Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of 
snow ; 

Proclaim  thee  nature's  varied  fa- 
vorite now ; 

Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  sur- 
face bow. 

Commingling    slowly   with  heroic 
earth, 

Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic 
plough : 

So  perish    monuments  of    mortal 
birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save   well-re- 
corded worth ; 


Save  where  some  solitary  column 
mourns 

Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the 
cave; 

Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine 
adorns 

Colonna's  clitf,  and  gleams  along 
the  wave ; 

Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-for- 
gotten grave, 

Where  the  gi-ay  stones  and  unmo- 
lested grass 

Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  bravo. 

Where  strangers  only,  not  regard- 
loss  pass. 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze, 
and  sigh  "  Alas!  " 


Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags 

as  wild : 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant 

are  thy  tiolds. 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva 

smiled. 
And  still  his  honeyed  wealth  Ily- 

mettus  yields; 
There  the  IdiUii'  l)ee  his  fragrant 

fortress  builds. 
The     frocboiM     wandoror     of    the 

mouulain  air: 


Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer 

gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles 

glare 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature 

still  is  fair. 

Where'er    we    tread  'tis  haunted, 

holy  ground ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar 

mould. 
But    onc!    vast    realm    of    wonder 

sjtroads  around. 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly 

told,  [behold 

Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have 

dwelt  upon: 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening 

glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy 

temples  gone : 
Age  shakos  Athena's  tower,  but  spares 

gray  Marathon. 


{From  Childe  Harold.] 

APOSTROPHE    TO   ADA,    THE 
POET'S   DAUGHTER. 

My  daughter!  with  thy  name  this 

song  begun  — 
My  daughter!  with  thy  name  thus 

much  shall  end  — 
I  see  ihee  not,  —  1  hear  thee  not,  — 

but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapped  in  thee;  thou 

art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  oi  far  years 

extend ; 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  shoiddst 

behold. 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  futiu-e  vis- 
ions blend. 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  —  \\hen 

mine  is  cold, 
.•\.  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy 

father's  mould. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development,  — 

to  watch 
Tliy   dawn   of  little  joys, — to  sit 

and  see 


106 


BYRON. 


Almost  thy  vory  growth,  — to  view 
thoc  catch 

Kiiowlediio  of    ohjects,  —  wouiUts 
yet  to  Iht'i'! 

To  liold   tliee  Ughlly  on  a  gi'iuie 
kiioe. 

Ami  jirint  on  thy  soft  check  a  par- 
ent's kiss, — 

This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  re- 
served for  me: 

Yet  this  was  in  my  nature,  —  as  it 
is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  some- 
thing; like  til  this. 


Yet,    thou^'h  dull    hate,  as    duty 

should  he  lauj^ht. 
1   know   that  thou  wilt  love  me; 

tliouiiii  Miy  name 
hhduld  Ix'siuit  from  thee,  as  a  spell 

still  fniu,i,'ht 
With   desolation,  —  and  a   hrokeu 

claim: 
Thou'^h  the  urave  closed  hetween 

us.  'twere  the  same. 
I   know   tliat    thou    will    love    iiie; 

though  to  <lrain 
My  hlooil  from  out  thy  IteiuL;  we|f 

an  aim. 
And  an  attainment,  — all  would  he 

in  vain, — 
Still  thou  wouldst   love  me,  still  that 

more  than  life  retain. 


The     hild  of  love, — tlioui^h  horn 

in  hillernos. 
And    nurtured   in  ciiiivulsinii.     ( )t 

thy  sire 
These    were    the    elements,  —  and 

thine  no  less. 
As  yet  such  an-aroimd  thee,  —  hut 

thy  lire 
Shall    he  more  tempered,  anil   liiy 

hojie  far  higher. 
Sweet  hi-    thy    cradled    sliunhersl 

O'er  the  sea, 

And   from  the  mountains  wliere  I 

ni)W  rcHpire, 
Fain   would   I   waft  such    hlcssin^' 

Upiin  Ihee, 

A«,  with  a  sit,'li,  1  diem  thou  mi|4lr-l 
have  been  to  me! 


[From  Childe  Harold.] 
n  AT  Ell  LOO. 

TiiKlM-:  was  a  sound  of  revelrj'  hy 
niiiht. 

And    iJeli^ium's   capital  had  gath- 
ered ihen 

Her  heaiilv  and   her  chivalry,  and 
hritiht 

The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women 
and  brave  men; 

A  thousand    hearts   beat  happily; 
and  when 

Music    aru>e   with   its  voluptuous 
swell. 

Soft  eyes  looked  love,  to  eyes  wldeh 
spake  again. 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage- 
bell; 
IJut  hush  I  bark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes 
like  a  ri>ing  knell! 

Did   ye   nut    hear   it? — No: 'twas 

but  I  be  wind. 
Or  the  car  rattlinj;  o'er  the  stony 

street; 
On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  un- 

cunliiied ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and 

rieasure  meet 
'I'o   chase  the  t;lowing   bom-s   with 

llyinii  f.-et  — 
Hut,    hark!  —  that    heavy    sound 

breaks  in  once  more, 
.Vs  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  re- 

])eat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than 

iieture! 

Arm!    arm!    it  is  —  it   is — the  can- 
uiius  ojieiiim;  roar! 

.\\\i\    there   was  mounting   in  hot 

haste:  the  steed. 
The  uMistering  sijuadron,  and  the 

I'latleriuK  car. 
Went  pourin.i,'  forward  with  imp«;t- 

UliUS  S| 1, 

.\nd  swiftly  fi>rminK  In  the  ranks 

of  war; 
.\nd  the  ileeji  ibimder  peal  on  ))cal 

afar; 
.\nd  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming 

drum 


B7R0N. 


107 


Housed  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morn- 

iny  star; 
While   thronged  the  citizens  with 
terror  iluinb, 
Dr  whispering  with  white  lips  "The 
foe !  They  come !  they  come ! ' ' 


And  Ardennes  waves  above  them 

her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as 

they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er 

grieves, 
Over  the  imreturning  brave, — alas ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the 

grass 
Which    now    beneath    them,    but 

above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery 

mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with    high  hope,  shall 

moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty 

life. 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudlv 

gay. 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal 

sound  of  strife. 
The  morn  (he  marshalling  in  arms, 

—  the  day 
Battle's  magnilicently-stern  array! 
The   thunder-clouds   close  o'er  it, 

which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick   with 

other  clay. 
Which   her  own  clay  shall  cover. 

heaped  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in 

one  red  burial  blent! 


ON  COMPLETING   MY   TIIIItTY- 
Srxril    YEAIi. 

[I lis  Id.il  nrscs.] 

Tis  time  this  heart  .should  be  un- 
moved. 
Since  others  it  has  ceased  to  move: 
i'et,  thouLjli  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love: 


My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 
The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  art 
gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 
A  fmieral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus  —  and  'tis  not  here  — 
Such    thoughts  should  shake  mj 
soul,  nor  noiv, 
\Vhere  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier. 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The    sword,    the    banner    and     the 
field. 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake !  (not  Greece  —  she  /.s  awake ! ) 
Awake,  my  spirit!    Think  through 
v^hont 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down. 
Unworthy  manhood! — unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If   thou   regrett'st   thy   youth,    why 
lire  ? 
The  land  of  honoral)le  death 
Is  here:  —  up  to  the  Held,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath! 

.Seek    out — less   often   sought    than 
found  — 
A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Tlien    look   aroinid.  and  choose  thv 
ground. 
And  take  thy  rest. 


108 


CAMPBELL. 


Thomas  Campbell. 


HALLOW HIJ    Ui:OL  Sh. 

^\'llA•r'^     liiilloweil     ground?      Has 

<artli  a  clod 
!l>  Makt-r  infant  not  should  be  trod 
liy  man,  the  iina<:<-  of  liis  God, 

En-It  and  fn'i-, 
^'nscoiiif^i-d  l»y  Suiiri-stition's  rod, 

To  liow  tilt'  kni'f  '.' 

Tliat's    liallowccl     ','r<>niid  —  wlnTf. 

jnoniM-il.  and  inisx'd. 
Tin-  lii's  ri'posi'  our  lovr  lias  kissed  :  — 
IJiil  Where's  their  nieuior)''s  uxansioii? 
Is't 
Yon  chiiri-hyard's  bowers! 
Xol  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 
A  part  of  ours. 

,\  kiss  ean  conserrate  the  fxround 
Where    mated     hearts    are     nuitual 
boimd :  I  wound. 

The  spot  where  love's  tirst  links  w«'re 

That  ne'er  are  riven. 
Is  hallowed  ilown  lo  earth's  jirofound. 

,\nd  up  to  Ileaveiil 

For  lime  makes  all  but  true  love  old: 
The  bnniim:  thouuhls  that  then  wen- 
told 
Kun  moll>-n  still  in  memory's  mould  : 

And  will  not  enoi. 
I'mil  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows   f;roimil   wher<-  heroes 

sleep  ? 
'Tis    not    the   seuljtfured    jiiles   you 

heap! 
In  dews  that  h.avens  far  distant  weep 

Their  Iinf  may  bloom; 
Or  p-nii  Iwlm-  hem  alh  the  di-ep 
Tln-ir  eoral  lomi): 

r.ut  strew  his  iishe.s  to  the  wind 
Who.e    Hword   or    voice   has  .sj'rAi-d 

minkind  — 
And  \y  h<'  drad,  whose  glorious  ndnd 

l.ifis  Ihine  on  liiyh  ?  — 
To  live  in  hearts  wt-  leuve  buhintl, 

Is  not  tu  die. 


Is't  death  ti>  fall  for  I'recdom'sri^hl? 
He's  dead  alone  thai  lacks  her  lii,'htl 
.Vnd  murder  >ulli(-s  in  Heaven's  sii;ht 

Tlie  swonl  be  draws:  — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  lij^ht  ?  — 

.V  noble  cause! 

(Jive  that!  and  W(-lcomeA\ar  to  brace 
llertlnnns!  and  rend  H(-a\en's  leek- 

ini;  s])acel 
The  colors  planted  face  to  face. 

The  char^'im,'  clu-(-r.  — 
Thouiih  Death's   pale  jiorse  lead   on 
the  .•!!.l-r.— 
Shall  still  be  dear. 

Ami    jilaee  oin-  trojdiies  where  men 

Kneel 
To    Heaven!  —  but    Heaven    rebukes 

my  zeal! 
The  laiise  of  Truth  and  human  ueal, 

()  (Jod  above! 
'i'l.iusfer  it  from  the  swords  apjieal 
To  I'eace  and  Love. 

I'eace!  Love!  the  clu-rubim  that  join 
'i  heir  spread   winys  o'er   Devoi ion's 

shrine. 

Trayers  soimd   in   vain,  and   lemi>les 
shine. 
\Vh(-re  they  are  not; 
The  h<-arl  alone  can  make  divine 
Hi-li','i<>n's  .spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
.Vnd    I'onipous   rights  in  donu'S  au- 
gust •.» 
Sie  mouldering   stones   ami   nu'tal's 
nisi 
ISelie  till-  vaunt. 
That  men  can  bless  one  jiile  of  dust 
With  chime  or  ehaiit. 

The  tiekiufi  «ood-wrirm  mocks  thee, 

man! 
The      lem|iles  —  creeds     themselves, 

/.frow  wan! 
Hut  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  Icmpli-  u'iven 
Thy  faitli,  that  bigots  diiie  not  bun" 
Its  space  is   Hea\en  ! 


CAMPBELL. 


109 


Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where    trancing    the     rapt    spirit's 

feeling. 
And  God'himsclf  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  splieres 
Mak     music,  thougli  miheard    their 
pealing 
By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  ob- 
scure '? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  youi- 

Aspect  above? 
Ye  nuist  be  Heavens  that  make  us 
sure 
Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time; 
That    man's    regenerate    soul    from 
crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?    'Tis  what 

gives  birth 
To     sacred    thoughts     in     souls    of 

worth!  — 
?eace!     Independence!     Truth!    go 
forth 
Earth's  compass  round; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make 
earth 
All  hallowed  ground. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

All    worldly  shapes  shall   melt  in 
gloom. 

The  sun  himself  nnist  die. 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  slet-p. 
That    gave    my    spirit    strength    to 
sweep 

Adown  the  gidf  of  Timi^! 
I  saw  the  last  of  humnn  mould. 
That  -^hall  Civutidu's  death  b.-hoM, 

As  Adam  saw  lui'  lirime! 


The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Kartli  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  iliat  lonely  man! 
Some    had   expired  "in    flight, —  the 

brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands; 

In  plague  and  famine  some! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread. 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  \\as  dumb! 

Yet,  proi)het-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

AVith  dauntless  words  and  high. 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the 
wood 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by. 
Saying.    "  We    are    twins  in  death, 

proud  Sun, 
i'hy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Ilast  seen  the  tide  of  hinnan  tears. 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

"  Wliat  though  beneath  thee  man  ]iut 
forth  ' 
His  pom]>,  his  pride,  his  skill; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and 
earth, 
The  vassals  of  the  will  ?  — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway. 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day; 

For  all  these  trophiedarts 
And     triumphs    that    beneath    thee 

sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 
Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

"  Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Ui)on  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  i)ain  anew  to  writhe; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shajtes  abhorred 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  swonl, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  s<"ythe. 

"  Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sundess  agonies, 

15eliol  I  not  me  (>xpire. 


no 


CAMPBELL. 


"My  lips  that  speak    thy    dirge  of 

(h-ath  — 
Their    rounded    gasp    and    gurgling 
bi  ealh 
To  see  thou  shaU  not  boast. 
The   eclipse  of   Nature   spreads   my 

pall,  — 
The  majesty  of  darkness  shall 
Receive  my  parting  ghost! 

"This  spirit  shall  return  to  Ilini 

Wild  i,'ave  its  heavenly  sviark: 
Yet  think  not,  Sun.  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark! 
No!  it  shall  live  again  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  be;uns  of  thine. 

liy  II im  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity. 
Who  n)l)bed  the  grave  of  Victory.— 

And  look  the  sting  from  Death! 

*'  Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  lutter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste  — 
(Jo.  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face. 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race. 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God!" 


YE  M.I  him:  lis  OF  ESC  LAS  n. 
A    .\AVAI-  <»I)K. 


Where  IMake  and  miyhty  Nelson  fell, 
Your  manlv  h.-arls  shall  glow. 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep. 
While  the  stormv  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loutl  and  long, 
Anil  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

IJritannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 
No  towers  along  the  ste«'p ; 
Her    march  is  o'er    the    mountain- 
waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak. 
She  (|nells  the  floods  below  — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore,  , 

When  the  stormv  wiiuls  do  blow; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  territic  burn; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  souii  ami  feast  shall  flow 

To  tlu'  tame  of  your  name, 

\\  hen  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  licry  light  is  heard  no  more 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


now  uELi'ioi's  IS  THE  H'ly- 

M.\(:. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  love's  beginning, 
When  two  nuUual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untying! 


Yk  Mariners  of  EnglamI! 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 

Whose    (lag  has   braved  a   tliousand 

years. 
The  battle  and  the  breeze!  ' 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
'I'o  match  an<»tber  foe! 
And  swe.|>  through  the  dee]>. 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow: 
While  the  batllerages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  wimls  do  blow. 

The  s].irits  of  your  father.s 
Shall  start  froi'n  every  wave! 
Fortht  'Ink  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 
And  ocean  was  their  grave; 


Yet,  remember,  'mi<Ist  your  wooing, 
I,<.ve  has  bli.ss,  but  love  has  ruing; 
Other  .smiles  may  make  you  li«;kle. 
Tears  ft)r  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  ct)meM,  and  Love  he  Uirrles, 

Just  as  fat •  fan<y  carries; 

Longest  stays,  when  sorest  chiilden; 
Laughs  and"  flies,  when  pressed  and 
bidd.-u. 

Hind  the  sea  to  shuuber  stilly, 
Hind  its  oilor  to  the  lily. 
Hi  ml  the  asiMii  ne'er  to  (piiver, 
'I'hen  bind  Love  to  last  for  ever' 


CAMPBELL. 


Ill 


Xovo's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  f resli  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and 

captured, 
Only  free,  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  chang- 
ing? 
No!  nor  fettered  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 


LORD    ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A     CHIEFTAIN,    to    the    Highlands 
bound. 

Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 
And  ril  give  thee  a  silver  pound 

To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Loch- 
gyle, 

This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 
"O,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle. 

And  this  Lord  Ulliu's  daughter, 

■  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 

i'hree  days  we've  fled  together. 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  Ills  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Sliould  they  our  steps  discover, 
Tlicn  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

Whcu  they  have  slain  her  lover  ?  " 

Outspoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready, — 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  liright; 
But  for  your  winsome  lady: 

"  And  by  my  word !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry: 
So  thougii  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o"er  the  feri^."' 

By  this  the  storm  grcAv  loud  apace. 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  fac(! 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 


But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind. 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men* 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste! "  the  lady  cries, 
"  Thougli  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father,"  — 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her. 
When,   oh!    too  strong    for    human 
hand. 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing; 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For    sore  dismayed,  through  storm 
and  shade. 

His  child  he  did  discover; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretcheil  for  aid, 

And  one  was  roimd  her  lover. 

"Comeback!  comeback!"  he  cried 
in  grief. 

"  Across  this  stormy  water: 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter!  —  O  my  daughter!" 

'Twas  vain:  the  loud  waves  lashed 
the  shore. 

Return  or  aid  preventing:  — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


FIELD  FLOWERS. 

Ye  field  flowers!  the  gardens  eclipse 

you,  'tis  true, 
Yet,  wildings  of  Nature,  1  dote  upon 

you. 
For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old. 
When' the  earth  teemed  aroimd  me 

with  fairy  delight. 
And     when    daisies    and    buttercuiv 

gladdened  my  sight. 
Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 


112 


CAMl'lil'.LL. 


I  love  you  for  lullliii;  iii<>  liink  into 

(Inaiiis 
Of  Uie  IiIul'  Ili^hhiiul  inoiintuins  and 

eclioiiiii  sliviiins. 
And   of   l)iiflifn   filiidivs   broathiiiij 

their  baliu, 
A'liile  tlu'  deiT  was  seoii  ulanciii'^  in 

Suns'iinc  ivniolo. 
Ami   tlie  dei'p  uii'llow   nnsh   of  the 

«ood-iiiu''<m  '^  note 
Math;    inusie    that    sweetened  the 

calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  sont;  has  a  pleasant  er 

tunc 
Than    ye   si)eak    to  my   heart,  little 

wildings  of  June: 
Of  old  ruinous  castles  \e  tell. 
Where  I    thouiiht  it  delightful  your 

beauties  to  tind. 
When     the     niai:ie  of     Nature    (irst 

breathed  on  my  mind. 
And  your  i)lossoms  were  part  of  her 

spell. 

Kven  now  what  affections  the  violet 

awakes: 
What  loved  little  islamls,  twice  seen 

in  theji-  lakes. 
<';m  the  wild  water-lily  restore; 
W'.ial  landscapes  1   read  in  the  jtrini- 

rose's  looks. 
And     what     pietlU'es   of    peidiled    and 

minnowy  brooks. 
In   (he  vetches  that   taiiuliij   ilirjr 

shore. 

K.irth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  hearl 

ye  were  dear. 
Krelhefeverof  passion, or JUiue of  fear 
Had  Hcallied  my  existence's  bloom; 
Onr-e    1  welcome   you    more,    in   life's 

passionless  sta;{e, 
\\'illi   the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit 
my  a^;e,  |tomb. 

And    I    wi.sh    you   to  j^row  on   my 


null  I  \  /  /  Mils. 

O.N  Linden,  svhen  lli<'  sun  was  low. 
All  liloodlcH^  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
.\nd  dark  a»  >v inter  was  the  ||o\s 
Of  Xft'Y  n.llinx  rapidly. 


But  Linden  .saw  another  .sight. 
When  tin- drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 
Conunandim;  tires  of  tieath  to  lii;ht 
ihe  darkness  of  her  scen«>ry. 

r>y  torch  and  tnunjiel  fast  arrayed, 
Kaih  horseman  drew  his  bad  le-blade. 
And  furious  ev»-ry  charger  luighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with   thunder 

riven. 
Then     rushed     the    steed    to    i)attle 

diiven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

Hut  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow. 
And  blijoilier  yet  Ihe  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  biU  sc.irce  yon  level  sun 
("an  iiiercet!u»  war-clouds  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Kr.iuk  and  fiery  Hun, 
.Shi>ut  in  their  sulidnu'ous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On!  ye  brave, 
\\'\w  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave.  .Miuiiciil  aJl  thy  baunei-s  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  i>arl  where  many  meet 
The    snow    shall    be    their  winding- 

sheel! 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepnlchre. 


IXII.K   OF  Fit  IS. 

Tiii;kI':   came    to   the   be.ich    a   poor 

exile  of   Krin. 
The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  w.is  heavy 

and  •hill: 
l-'or  his  coimlry  he  sighed,    when   at 

Iw  iliglit  repairing 
To  Maudi-ralone  i)v  the  wind-beaten 

hill. 
ItuI  the  tiay-slar  altracleil   his  eye's 

.siiil  ili-voiion. 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of 

the  ocean. 


CAMPBELL. 


lis 


Whero  oii'-c  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful 
emoiion, 
ilv  sang  the  boKl  anthem  of  Erin 
go  bragh ! 

"Sad  is  my  fate!"  said  the  heart- 
broken stranger; 

"  The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert 
ean  flee, 

But  1  have   no  refuge   from   famine 
and  danger, 
.V  home  and  a  country  remain  not 
to  me. 

Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bow- 
ers, 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I 
spend  the  sweet  hours. 

Or   covei'   my   harp  with   the    wild- 
woven  flowers. 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin 
go  bragh ! 

'"Erin,  my  country!  though  sad  and 

forsaken. 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten 

shore ; 
But,   alas!  in   a  far  foreign  land    I 

awaken, 
And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can 

meet  me  no  more!  |me 

J  cruel  fate!  wilt  tliou  never  replace 
jii  a  mansion  of  peace  —  where  no 

perils  can  chase  me  ? 
Nevei-  ngain  sliall  my   brothers  em- 

brarc  me  ';' 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  lived  to 

d((i)lore ! 

"  Where  is  my   cabin-door,   fast  by 

the  wild  wood  ? 
Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its 

fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on 

my  childhood  ? 
And    where    is   the  bosom-friend, 

dearer  tlian  all  ? 
Oh,  my  sad  heart!   long  abandoned 

by  plcasni'e. 
Why    did    it  dote  on   a  fast-fading 

treasure  ? 
Tears,  like  (be  rain  ilrop,  may  fall 

williout  nieasm-e. 
But  rai>tnrc  and   l)eauty  they  can 

not  re<'all. 


"Yet  all   its   sad   recollections  sup- 
pressing. 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can 

draw: 
Erin !  an  exile   bequeathes  thee  this 

blessing! 
Land  of  my  forefathers  !    Erin  go 

bragh ! 
Buried  and  cold  when  my  heart  sth..s 

lier  motion. 
Green  be  thy  fields,  —  sweetest  isle  of 

the  ocean ! 
And    thy    harp-striking    bards    sing 

aloud  with  devotion, — 
Erin  mavournin— Erin  go  bragh!"  * 


ro   THE  liAlNDOW. 

TiiiUMPHAi,  arch,  that  filFst  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part! 

I  ask  not  i)roud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art  — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  aliglit 

Betwixt  the  eartli  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 
Thy  form  to  please  me  so. 

As  when  1  dreamed  of  gems  and  gold 
Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  trom  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws. 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws! 

And  yet,  fair  bow.  no  fabling  dreams, 
But  words  of  the  .Most  High, 

Have    told    why    first    thy    robe    of 
Ijeams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o'er  the  green,  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's     covenant     thou     didst 
shine. 
How  came  tlic  world's  gray  fathers 
forth 
To  watch  Ihy  s:irr«'d  sign! 

•  Ireliiml  my  ilarling  -  I  nluinl  forever. 


114 


CAMPBELL. 


And  when  its  ypUow  lustre  smiled 
o'er  mountains  yt't  untrod. 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 
To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Melhinks.  tliy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  lirsl-niade  anthem  rang, 

On  earth  delivered  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  <'ver  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Turaittured  fjreet  thy  beam: 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  prophet's  theme! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 

When    glittering    in    the    freshened 
fields 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
o'er  mountain,  tower  and  town, 

Or  Miirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
.\  thousand  fathoms  down! 

.\s  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  youu;;  thy  beauties  seem. 

As  when  tlu^  eagle  from  llw.  ark 
Fii-sl  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithfid  to  its  sacred  page, 
Iieaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span. 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


77/ a;   lllVFi;   OF  I.IFK. 

TiiK  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 
()iu-  life's  siiecei  diri'i  stages: 

A  day  to  (hildhood  seems  a  year, 
And  years  like  piissing  ages. 

riie  glii!sonie  r-iirrent  of  our  youth, 

Kre  iiassiou  yet  «Usorders, 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  bonlers. 

Hut  as  the  careworn  i-heek  grows  wan, 
And  sorrow's  shafts  fiy  thicker, 

\r  stars,  thai  meiisure  life  to  unu, 
Wliy  seem  your  courses  «|Uickeri' 


When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and 
breath. 

And  life  itself  is  vapid. 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rajtid  ? 

It  may  be  strange  —  yet  who  would 

change 
Time's  c(mi-sc  to  slower  speeding. 
When  one  by  one  our  friends   have 

gone 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding? 

Iieaven    gives    our  years  of  fading 
strength 
Indenniifyiug  fleetness; 
And    those    of     vouth,    a    seeming 
length. 
Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 


HATTLE   OF   THE   nMlIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North. 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown. 
When  to  liattle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
And  her  arms  along  thede»*p  i>roudly 

shone: 
By  each  gun  the  lighteil  Itrand, 
In  a  bold  determined  hand  ; 
And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat. 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine; 

While  llie  sign  of  battle  Hew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 

It  was  ten  of  .\i>ril  morn  by  the  chime: 

As  they  drifted  on  their  i)atii. 

There  was  silence  ileep  as  di-alh; 

And  till-  boldest  held  his  breath. 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  Fngland  lluslH>d 

To  aiitici])ate  the  .scene; 

,\nd  her  van  thi'  lleeter  rushed 

( »'er  the  deadly  sjiace  between. 

"  Hejirts  of  oak  !  "  our  ca|)tain  cried, 

when  each  gun 
From  its  adamant iiu-  lijts 
Sprea<l  a  death-shade  round  the sliips, 
Like  the  burrbane  eclipse 
( )f  the  Htm. 


CAMPBELL. 


115 


Again!  again!  again! 

Ami  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

I'ill  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back : 

Their, shots   along   the   deep  slowly 

boom; 
Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale. 
Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave; 

"  Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save:  — 

So   peace   instead    of   death    let    us 

bring; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet. 
With  tlie  crew,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king." 

Tlien  Denmark  blessed  our  chief. 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 
And  the  soimds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose. 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from 

the  day; 
While  the  sim  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight. 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

I>y  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  .shines  in  light! 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

lly  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 
Ouce  so  faithful  and  so  true. 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died 
With  the  gallant,  good  Kiou: 
Soft  sigh  the   winds  of  heaven  o'er 

their  grave! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 
And  the  memiaid's  song  condoles. 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the' brave! 


SONG. 

Eakl  March  looked  on  his  flying 
child, 
And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her  — 
"  The  youth,"  he  cried,  "  whom  1  ex- 
iled, 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her." 

She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover: 
And  he  looks  up  to  Ellen's  bower. 

And  she  looks  on  her  lover  — 

But  ah!  so  pale  he  knew  her  not, 
Though    her    smile    on    him    was 
dwelling, 

"  And  am  I  then  forgot  —  forgot  ?" 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs. 
Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes; 

Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those 
eyes 
To  lift  theii-  silken  lashes. 


TRIBUTE    TO    VICTOniA. 

Victoisia'.«5  sceptre  o'er  the  deep 
Has  touched,  and  broken  slavery's 
chain; 

Yet,  strange  magician  I  she  enslaves 
Our  hearts  within  her  own  domain. 

Her  spirit  is  devout,  and  bums 
With  thoughts  averse  to  bigotry; 

Yet  she,  herself  the  idol,  turns 
Our  thoughts  into  idolatry. 


[f;wn  tht  Pleasures  of  Ifnpe.'] 

THE   DISTANT  IX  NATURE  AND 
EXI'ERIENCE. 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethe- 
real bow 

Spans  with  l)right  arch  the  glittering 
hills  below. 

Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  nnis- 
ing  .-ye, 

\\  hose  sunbrighl  summit  mingles 
with  the  sky  ? 


116 


CAMI'BKLL. 


Why  ilo  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint 
apjH'ar 

Mori'  swci't  than  all  the  landst-apo 
Miiilin^i  near  :'  — 

'Tis  distance  lends  enchantuient  to 
the  view. 

And  lohes  the  mountaiu  in  its  azuif 
hue. 

Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  sur- 
vey 

The  prouiised  joys  of  life  s  unmeas- 
ured way; 

Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-<liscovereil 
scene 

More  pleasing  seems  than  ail  the  past 
hath  heen. 

Anil  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  re- 
|iair 

From  daric  ohlivion,  {ijrows  divinely 

there 

Auspicious  Hope  I  in  thy  sweet  gar- 
den i^row 

Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for 
every  woe; 

Won  hy  their  sweets,  in  Natme's 
ian'^Miiil  iiour. 

The  wayworn  piliiiim  seeks  thy  sum- 
mer hower; 

There,  as  liie  wild  bee  murnuirs  on 
the  wing. 

What  |)eacefid  dieanis  thy  liandmaid 
spirits  iiriniil 

What  viewless  forms  Ih'  /Kolian 
organ  |)lay. 

And  sweep  the  fiirrowi'd  lines  of 
anxious  Ihuught  away. 


[/■'mm  I'lii-  /'lnt.siir-  H  i>/  //'i/ic.l 
l/o/'K    l\  Mi\  HUSITY. 

r.UMiii  r  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Ileavins 
command. 

When  Israel  marched  ali>ng  liie  des- 
ert land, 

ISla/cd  through  the  night  on  lonely 
wilds  afar. 

,^nd  told  the  |ialh.  — a  never-scltinu' 
star: 

So.  Iieavcidy  tJcuiiis.  In  thy  coinse 
divine. 

Ilope  JH  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever 
thine. 


I  Fnmi  The  Plrmnirin of  Hope.] 

iio.MEsrit  •  iiM'j'iyt:ss. 
Lkt  winter  cornel    let    polar   spirits 

sweep 
The  darlvcniiig  world,   and   tcmpest/- 
Iroubleti  dcepi 

Though  boundless  snows  the  with- 
ered heath  deform. 

Ami  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders 
through  the  storm. 

Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  re- 

With   mental  light,  the    melancholy 

day: 
And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon 

is  o'er. 
The    ice-chained    watei-s   slumbering 

on  the  siiore. 
How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  little  hall 
Bla/.e  oil   the  hearth,  and  waim  his 

]iictiired  wall! 
How  blest  he  nanu's,  in  Love's  famil- 
iar tone, 
'I'he    kind,    fair    friend,    by    nature 

marki'd  his  own; 
And,    ill   liie  waveless  mirror  of  his 

mind. 
Views  the  licet  years  of  pleasure  left 

i.eliind. 
Since  \N  bell  iier  empire  o'er  his  heart 

h.'-an: 
.since  lirst  hecallcil  In  i  bis  before  the 

holy  man! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
.And    ligiit    the   wintry    paradise    of 

home: 
.\iiil  lei  the  lialf-uiiciirtaiiHMl  window 

iiail 
Sol  lie  wa\-wuiii  man  liciiighleil  in  the 

\  :i!'' ! 
Now,  v.lnl.'ibe  moaiiiiiL;  night-wind 

raues  high, 
.\s   swec).    the   >hot-slars   down    the 

troubled  sky. 
While  (ieiy    Imsis   in    Heaven's  wide 

circle  play. 
Ami   balbe  in  lurid    li:;bl   the   milky- 
way. 
Sair  from  the  Hloriii.  (be  nieleor.  .and 

the  shower. 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the 

solemn  hour  — 


CAMPBELL. 


117 


Witli  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit 

Iji'miile, 
A   generous    tear    of  anguish,   or  a 

smile. 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 
Al'OSTliOl'lIE    TO   HUI'K. 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last 
embers  burn, 

Wlien  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust 
return ! 

Heaven  to  thy  ohai-ge  resigns  the 
awful  hour! 

Oh!  then,  thy  kingdom  eonies,  im- 
mortal Power! 

What  though  each  spark  of  earth- 
born  rapture  tly 

The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and 
closing  eye ! 

Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands 
con\oy 

The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal 
day  — 

Then,  then  the  triumph  and  the 
trance  begin, 

And  all  the  pha-nix  spirit  burns 
within  I 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  /fope.] 

Ad.lIXST  SKEPTICAL    PIHLOS^O- 
PIIY. 

Ahk  these  the  pompous   tidings   ye 

jiroelaim. 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demigods  of 

Fame  ? 
Is    this    your    triumph — this    yoiu' 

proud  aiiplause. 
Children  of  Truth,  and  chami)ion  of 

her  eause  ? 
For  tJiis   hath   Science    searched   on 

weaiy  wing. 
By  short'  and    sea  —  each  unite  and 

living  thing! 
Launched    with    Iberia's   pilot  from 

the  steej), 
To  worlds  unknown  and  isles  beyond 

the  deep  ? 


Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot 

driven. 
And  wheeled  in  triumph  through  tlie 

signs  of  Heaven. 
Oh!  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wan- 
dered there. 
To  waft  us  hom(!  the  message  of  des- 
pair ? 
Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow 

to  suit. 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling 

fruit ! 
Ah  me  !    the   laurelled   wreath   that 

JNIurder  rears. 
Blood-nursed,   and   watered    by   the 

widow's  tears. 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so 

dread. 
As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the 

skeptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's 

chain  ? 
I   smile    on    death,    if    Heavenward 

Hope  remain: 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's 

strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
I  f  Chance  awakened,  inexorable  ])Ower 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an 

liour; 
li'xiuicd  o'er  the  woi'ld's  precarious 

scene  to  sweej), 
>\\  ift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the 

deep, 
I'o  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting 

smile. 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little 

wiiile; 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  formed 

in  \aiii 
This    iroui)lcil    pulse   and    visionaiy 

biain! 
Fade,  ye  wild    flowers,    memorials  of 

my  iloom. 
Anil  sink,  ye  stars,  that   light  me  to 

th<'  tomb! 
'i'rulli.  ever  lovely. — since  the  world 

began, 
'i  lie  foe  of  tyiauls.  and  the  friend  of 

man,  — 
Ilow  can  thy  words  from  balmy  shnii- 

l)er  start 
ixeposing    Virtue    ]iillowed    on    ibe 

heart ! 


118 


CAREW—  CARLYLE. 


Vet 

if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thimder 

Oh  I    let  her  read,   nor  loudly,   nor 

r..ll.-(l. 

elate. 

An. 

that   were   true   whidi    Nature 

The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better 

never  told. 

fate ; 

\A-i 

WiMldin  smile  not  on  her  con- 

Hut,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's 

<|Uere.i  lield 

sin, 

No 

rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  re- 

Weep to  reeord,   and   blush   to  give 

vealed  I 

it  in! 

Thomas   Carew. 


UIS  DA  IX  HE  T  URN  ED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 
Or  a  eoral  lip  admires. 

Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  to  maintain  his  (ires; 

As  old  Time  makes  these  ileeay. 

So  his  tlaines  must  waste  away. 


IJut  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Ociitle  tliouLchts  and  (mIiu  desires, 

Hearts  with  eipial  love  combined, 
Kindle  nevcr-dyinii  tires:  — 

Wliere  these  are  not,  1  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 


.\o  tears,  relia,  now  shall  win. 
My  resolved  heart  to  return; 

I  have  seanhed  the  soul  within 
And    tind    noui^ht    but     pride    and 
scorn ; 

I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 

<  an  disdain  as  nuieh  as  thou  I 


A6K   ME  SO  MORE. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 

VVhen  .Itine  is  past,  the  fad  ins;  rose. 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  llowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep, 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  liolden  atoms  of  the  day. 
For.  in  jyure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

.\sk  mo  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
'Ihe  nii^htingale  when  May  is  jklsI, 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  menomorewherethosestars  light 
That  down  war<ls  fall  in  dead  of  night. 
For  in  vour  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  pluenix  builds  her  spicy  nest. 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  (lies. 
And  ill  voiir  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


Thomas  Carlyle. 

TO-DA  Y.  I  Hchold  It  aforetime,  no  eye  ever  did; 

...         ,    .,    ,  ,  .1       I  So   soon  it   fnrever  from  all  eyes   is 

So  here  li.itli  been  dawning  another  ,,■  i  ' 

blue  day  I  I 

Think,   \\ilt    thou  Iri   it   slip   useless  | 

away  ?  II<Te   hath    i)ei'n   dawning    another 

I  blue  day: 

Out  of  i'ternity  this  in-\s  day  was  born  ;  I  Tbiiili,   wilt   thou  lit    it  slip  usclesa 
Into  eternity  at    night    will    return.  '  away. 


CABY. 


119 


err  noxo? 

What  is  hope  ?  A  sinilin/i  rainbow 
Children  follow  through  the  net  : 

"Tis  not  here  —  still  yonder,  yonder; 
Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  life  ?    A  thawing  iceboard 
On  a  sea  with  sunny  shore  ; 


Gay  we  sail  ;  it  melts  beneath  us  ; 
We  are. sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 

What  is  man'?     A   foolish  baby; 

Vainly    strives,    and    fights,    and 
frets : 
Demanding  all,  deserving  nothing, 

One  small  grave  is  all  he  gets. 


Alice  Gary. 


LIFE. 

Solitude  !     Life  is  inviolate  soli- 
tude ; 
Never  was  truth  so  apart  from  the 

dreaming 
As  lieth  the  selfhood  inside  of  the 
seeming. 
Guarded  with  triple  shield  out  of  all 
(juest, 
80  that  the  sisterhood  nearest  and 

sweetest, 
So  that  the  brotherhood   kindest, 
completest. 
Is  but  an   exchanging  of  signals  at 
best. 

Desolate  !     Life  is   so    dreary    and 
desolate. 
Women   and    men   in  the   crowd 

meet  and  mingle, 
Yet  with  itself  every  soul  standeth 
single. 
Deep  out  of  sympathy  moaning  its 
moan ; 
Holding  and   having  its  brief   ex- 
ultation; 
Milking  its  lonesome  and  low  la- 
mentation; 
.-'ighting  its  terrible  conflicts  alone. 

Separate  !     Life  is  so  sad  and  so  sep- 
arate. 
Under  love's  ceiling  with  roses  for 

lining, 
Heart  mates  with  heart  in  a  tender 
entwining. 
Vet  never  the  sweet  cup  of  love  fill- 
eth  full. 


Eye  looks  in  eye  with  a  question- 
ing wonder. 

Why  are  we  thus  in  our  meeting 
asimder '? 
Why  are  our  pulses  so  slow  and  so 
dull  ? 

Fruitless,  fruitionless  !     Life  is  fru- 
itionless; 
Never  the  heaped-up  and  generous 

measure ; 
Never   the  substance  of  satisfied 
pleasure ; 
Never    the    moment    with    rapture 
elate ; 
But  draining  the  chalice,  we  long 

for  the  chalice, 
And  live  as  an  alien  inside  of  our 
palace. 
Bereft  of  our  title  and  deeds  of  estate. 

Pitiful  !    Life  is  so  poor  and  so  piti- 
ful. 
Cometh  the  cloud  on  the  goldenest 

weather; 
Briefly  the  man  and  his  youth  stay 
together. 
Faileth  the  frost  ere  the  har\'est  is  in. 
And  conscience  tlescends  from  the 

open  aggression 
To  timid  and  troubled  and  tearful 
concession, 
.\ud  downward  and  down  into  parley 
with  sin. 

Purposeless  I   Life  is  so  wayward  and 
jMU-poseless. 
.\hvays    before    us    the    object    is 
shifting. 


120 


CABY. 


Always  the  means  ami  the  method 

an-  drifting. 
Wo  riio  wliai  i>  doiit — what  is  un- 

don>  (lepiun  ; 
More  striving  for  high  things  than 

things  that  arc  holy. 
And  .so  we  go  down  to  the  valley 

60  lowly, 
Wherein  there  is  work,  and   device 

never  more. 

",'anity.  vanity!    All  would  he  vanity. 
Whether  in  seeking  or  getting  our 

pleasures, 
Whetlu'r  in  spending  or  hoarding 
our  treasures. 
Wheilnr    in    imlolence,   whether    in 
St  rile  — 
Whether  in  feasting  and  whether 

in  fasting, 
IJut  for  our  faith  in  ilie  Love  ever- 
ia.-ting  — 
lint  for  tin-  Life  that  is  tetter  than 
life. 


r/z/v  F/:i;i;  r  or  oalla  wa  y. 

In  the  stonny  waters  of  (Jallaway 
My  lM)at  had  heen  idle  the  livelong 

<lay. 
Tossing  and  tumhling  to  and  fro, 
For  the  wind  was  iiigh  and  the  tide 

was  low. 

The  tirle  was  low  and  the  wind  was 

high. 
.\nd  we  were  heavy,  my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveller  all  the  day 
Had  eros.sed  the  ferry  of  (Jallaway. 

At  set  o'  til'  Hiui,  the  iluuils  out- 
spread 

I, ike  willies  of  darkness  overhead, 

When,  out  o'  th'  west,  my  ej'es  took 
heed 

Of  a  lady,  riding  at  full  spred. 

The  hoof-str«)keM  xtnuk  on  tin'  lliutv 

hill 
Llki-  silver  ringing  on  silver,  till 
I  .••aw  the  veil  ill  tier  fair  hand  lloul. 
And  flutter  a  signal  for  my  boat. 


The  waves  ran  backward  as  if  aware 
Of  a  presence  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  my  little  craft  leaned  do\Mi  and 

lay 
With  her  side  to  th'  sands  o'  lli'  (lal 

laway. 

"  Haste,  good  boatman  I  haste  I  "  slm 

cried, 
••  And  row  me  ov«r  th.  otlur  side!  " 
And  she  stripped  from  her  finger  the 

shining  ring. 
And  gave  it  me  for  the  ferrying. 

"  Woe  's  me!  my  Lady,  I  may  not  go. 
For  the  wintl  is  high  and  th'  tide  i.T 

low. 
And  rocks,  like  dragons,  lie  in  the 

w  ave,  — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  yoi 

gavel  " 

*'  Nay,  nay!  for   I  lie   roeks   will    lie 

melted  down. 
And  the  waters,  they  never  will  let 

me  drown. 
And  tlie  wind  a  pilot  will  prove  to 

Ih.'e, 
For   mv    living   lover,  he   wails    fur 

li).-!'"' 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  sjnir 
She  put  in  my  hand,  but   I  answered 

her: 
"  The  wind    is  high  and  the  tide  is 

low. — 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  and  will  not  trol" 

Her  faci-  grew  deadly  white  with  pam. 
And  she  look  her  eliamping  steed  by 

III'  mane, 
.\nd  bent  his  neek  to  th'  ribbon  and 

spur 
Tli.it   lay  in   jiiy  band.  —  but    I  an 

swered  Inr; 

"  Though    you    should    proffer    uw 

I wiic  and  thrice 
( »f   ring  and  ribbon   and     steed   the 

(iriee,  — 
riie   leave   of   ki.sslug  youf  lily-like 

hand! 
I   iK-ver  eoidd   row  you   safe  to   th 

!an<!." 


CARY. 


Vl\ 


'Then  (Joil  liavo  im-rcy!"  slipfainl- 

ly  cricMl, 
"  For  ray   lover  is  dying  tlio  other 

side  I 
O  cruel,  O  eniellest  Gallaway, 
]ie  parted,  and   make   me  a  path,  I 

pray!" 

Of  a  sudden,  the  sun  shone  large  and 

bright 
As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night; 
And   the   rain  on   the   river  fell   as 

sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's 

feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge 

to  edge 
A   rainbow   stretched  like  a  golden 

bridge. 
And  I  put  the  rein    n  her  hand  so 

fair. 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle  th'  queen 

o'  th'  air. 

And   over  the  river,   from  edge   to 
edge, 

She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shim- 
mering bridge, 

And    landing    safe  on    the    farther 

side, — 
"Love  is  thy  conqueror,  Death!" 
she  cried. 


COUNSEL. 

Seek  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light. 
But  keep  unto  thine  own: 

Do  what  thou  doest  with  thy  might 
And  trust  thyself  alone! 

Work  for  some  good,  nor  idly  lie 

Witliin  the  human  hive; 
And  though  the  outward  man  should 
die. 

Keep  thou  the  heart  alive! 

Strive  not  to  banish  pain  and  iloubt, 

In  pleasure's  noisy  din; 
The  peace  thou  st'ekest  for  without 

Is  only  found  within. 


If  fortune  disregard  thy  claim, 
V.y  worth,  hei'  slight  attest; 

Nor   blush   and    hang   the   head   for 
shame 
When  thou  hast  done  thy  best. 

Disdain  neglect,  ignore  despair, 
On  loves  and  friendships  gone 

Plant  thou  thy  feet,  as  on  a  stair, 
And  mount  right  up  and  on! 


A   DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  a  plot  of  ground. 
Once  when   I  chanced  asleep   to 
drop, 
And   that  a   green   hedge  fenced  it 
round. 
Cloudy  w  itli  roses  at  the  top. 

I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  rise, — 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach, — 

And  Spring  with  Sunuuer  in  her  eyes 
Making  the  chiefest  charm  of  each. 

A  thousand  vines  were  climbing  o'er 
The  hedge,  1  thought,  but  as  I  tried 

To  pull  them  down,  for  evermore 
The  tiowers  dropt  off  the  other  side ! 

Waking,  1   said,  "These  things  are 
signs 

Sent  to  instruct  us  that  'tis  oiu-s 
Duly  to  keep  and  dress  our  vines, — 

Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 

*'  And  when  the  angel  feared  of  all 
Across    my     hearth     its    shallow 
spread. 

The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Has  bloomed  the  otlicr  side,"  Isaid. 


SI-EST  AS  I)   MISSPENT. 

Stay  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky, 

O  golden  color  of  the  evening  sun! 
L.  tnot  the  sweet  day  in  its  sweet- 
ness die. 
While  my  day's  work  is  only  just 
bcsrim. 


rJ2 


CARr. 


Counting  the  happy  chances  strewn 
about 
Thick   as   the   loaves,    and   sayint; 
wliich  was  bi'st, 
The  rosy  Ughls  of  morning  all  went 
out, 
And    it    was    burning   noon,   anil 
time  to  rest. 

Then  leaning  low  upon   a   piece  of 
sha.l.'. 
Fringt"!    round    with    violets    and 
pansics  sweet, 
'  My  h.art  ami  I,"   I  said,  "will  be 
delayed. 
And  plaii  our  work  wliile  coob  the 
sultry  heat." 

Deep  in  the  hills,  and  out  of  silence 
vast. 
A    waterfall   played    up   his    silver 
tune; 
My  plans  lost  purpose,  fell  to  dreams 
at  last, 
And   held   me  late  into  the  after- 
noon. 

I'lUt   when  the  idle  jileasures  ceased 
l(.  piea-e. 
Ami  I   awuki',  and  not  a  jilan  was 
planned, 
•lust  as  a  drowning  man  at    what   he 
.sees 
Calclies  f(}r  life,  1  caught  the  thing 
at  hand. 

And  SI)  life's  little  wnrk-<lav  hour  has 

all 
Heen    spent    :iiid    misspent    doing 

what  1  ei>"l<l. 
And  in  re,'riis  and  etTorls  to  recall 

'i'lie  eh.inee  of  lia\  iULT.  beiir.'.  what 
1   would. 

.\Md  s(»  sonietiine.s   I   eannol   <lioo.se 
but  cry. 
Seeing    my    lale-.sown    Mowers   are 
hardly  set  ; 
U  darkening  ecdor  of  tJie  evening  sky, 
Si)are   nit!    the  day   a  little  longer 
yet. 


HFK\S  .HYSTEnr. 

Lifk's  sadly  solemn  mystery. 
Hangs  o'er  me  like  a  weight; 

The  glorious  longing  to  be  free, 
The  gloomy  bars  of  fate. 

Alternately  the  goo<l  and  ill. 
The  light  and  dark,  are  strung; 

Fountains  of  love  within  my  heart, 
And  hale  upon  my  tongue. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  unstable  ground, 
Above  my  head  the  skies; 

Immortal  longings  in  my  soul, 
And  death  before  my  eyes. 

No  pundy  pnvo.  and  iierfect  good, 
No  high,  unhindered  jMJWer; 

A  beauteous  promise  in  the  bud, 
And  mildew  on  the  llower. 

The  glad,   green  brightuess  of    the 
spring; 

The  sunnner,  soft  and  warm: 
The  faded  autumns  lluttering  gold, 

The  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

To  find  some  sure  infeq)reter 

My  si>irit  vainly  tries; 
I  only  kn(»w  that  (lod  is  love, 

Anil  know  tliat  love  is  wise. 


^'o  A'/.w;. 

Wii.vT  is  it  that  doth  sjMiil  the  fair 
.'idorning 
With    wliieh   her  boiiy    .she    would 
ilignify. 
When  from  iier  bed  she  rise.s  in  the 
morning 
To  comb,  and  plait,  and  tie 
Iler  hair  with  ribbun.s,  cH)lored  like 
the  sky  ? 

What  is  il  that    her  pli-asure  discom- 
poses 
When  .sin'  wnnid  sit  and  sing  the 
sun  away  —  (roses, 

.Making  her  .sec  dead   roses   in   red 

And  ill  the  downfall  gray 
.V     bliuhl    that    se»-m8   the   world    U 
iivii  lay  ? 


CART. 


123 


What  is  it  makes  the  trembling  look 
of  trouble 
About  her  tender  mouth  and  eye- 
lids fair  ? 
Ah  me,  'ah  me !  she  feels  her  heart 
beat  double, 
AVithout  the  mother's  prayer, 
And  her  wild  fears  are  more  than 
she  can  bear. 

To  the  poor  sightless  lark  new  pow- 
ers are  given, 
Not  only  with  a  golden  tongue  to 
sing. 
But  still  to  make  her  wavering  way 
toward  heaven 
With  undiscerning  wing; 
But  what  to  her  doth  her  sick  sorrow 
bring  ? 

Her  days  she  turns,  and  yet  keeps 
ovortui'ning, 
And  hei-  tlesh  shrinks  as  if  she  felt 
the  rod; 


For  'gainst  her  will  she  thinks  hard 

things  concerning 
The  everlasting  God, 
And  longs  to  be  insensate  like  the 

clod. 

Sweet  Heaven,  be  pitiful!  rain  down 

upon  her  [such; 

The  saintly  charities  ordained  for 

She  was  so  poor  in  everything  but 

honor,  [much! 

And      she     loved     much  —  loved 

AYould,  Lord,  she  had  thy  garment's 

hem  to  touch. 

Haply,  it  was  the  hungi-y  heart  with- 
in her, 
The  woman's  heart,  denied  its  nat- 
ural right. 
That  made  of  her  the  thing  which 
men  call  sinner, 
Even  in  her  own  despite; 
Lord,  that  her  judges  might  receive 
their  sight! 


Phcebe  Gary. 


NEARER  HOME. 

OxE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Tomes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 

I  am  nearer  home  tonlay 
Than  1  ever  have  been  before ; 

Nearer  my  father's  house. 

Where  the  many  mansions  be; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  ci^stal  sea; 

.N'earcr  the  bound  of  life. 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown ! 

But  lying  darkly  between. 

Winding  down  through  the  night. 
Is  the  silent  unknown  stream. 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  liglit. 

(  loser  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm: 


Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  tlie  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust; 

I,et  mv  spirit  feel  in  death. 
That  her  feet  are  firndy  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith! 


JJEAD  LOVE. 

Wk  are  face  to  face,  and  between  us 
here 
Is  ihe  love  we  thought  could  never 
(lie; 
Why  has  it  only  lived  a  year? 

Who  has  nuudercd  it  —  yon  or  1  ? 


124 


CAnr. 


NTo  matter  who  — the  deed  was  done 
By  one  or  both,  and  there  it  hes ; 

The  smile  from  the  lip  forever  gone, 
And  darkness  over  the  beautiful 
eyes. 

Our  love  is  dead,  and  our  hope  is 
wrecked ; 
So  what  does  it  profit  to  talk  and 
rave, 
Whether  it  perished  by  my  neglect. 
Or  whether  your  cruelty  dug  its 
grave! 

Why  should  you  say  that  I  am  to 
blame. 
Or  why  should  I  charge  the  sin  on 
you? 
Our  work  is  before  us  all  the  same, 
And  the  guilt  of  it  lies  between  us 
two. 

We  have  praised  our  love    for    its 
beauty  and  grace ; 
Now   we   stand   here,   and  hardly 
dare 
To  tiu-n  the  face-cloth  back  from  the 
face. 
And  see  the  thing  that  is  hidden 
there. 

Yet  look!  ah,  that  heart  has  beat  its 
last. 
And  the  beautiful  life  of  our  life  is 
o'er,   " 
And  when  we  have  buried  and  left 
the  past. 
We  two,   together,   can  walk    no 
more. 

You  might  stretcli  yourself  on  the 
dead,  and  weep, 
And  pray  as  the  prophet  prayed, 
in  pain; 
But  not  like  him  could  you  break  the 
sleep, 
And  bring  the  soul  to  the  clay  again. 

Its  head  in  my  bosom  I  can  lay, 
And  shower  my  woe  there,  kiss  on 
kiss, 
But  there  never  was  resurrection-day 
In  the  world  for  a  love  so  dead  as 
this. 


And,  since  we  cannot  lessen  Ihe  sin 

By  mouinhig  over  the  deed  we  did. 
Let  us  draw  the  winding-sheet  up  to 
the  chin. 
Ay,  up  till  the   death-blind    eyes 
are  hid ! 


THE  LADY  JAQUELINE. 

"  False  and  iickle,  or  fair  and  sweet, 

I  care  not  for  the  rest, 
The  lover  that  knelt  last  night  at  my 
feet 
Was  the  bravest  and  the  best. 
Let  them  perish  all,  for  their  power 
has  waned, 
And  their  glory  waxed  dim ; 
They  were  well  enough  \\hile  they 
lived  and  reigned, 
But  never  was  one  like  him! 
And  never  one  from  the  past  would 
I  bring 
Again,  and  call  him  mine;  — 
The  King    is    dead,   loivj    live    the 
Kingr' 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  In  the  old,  old  days,  when  life  was 
new, 

And  the  world  upon  me  smiled, 
A  pretty,  dainty  lover  I  had. 

Whom  I  loved  with  the  heart  of  a 
child. 
When  the  buried  sun  of  yesterday 

Comes  back  from  the  shadows  dim. 
Then  may  his  love  return  to  me, 

And  the  love  I  had  for  him ! 
But  since  to-day  hath  a  better  thing 

To  give,  I'll  ne'er  repine;  — 
The  King    is    dead,   long    live    the 
King! " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  And  yet  it  almost  makes  me  weep, 

Aye!  weep,  and  cry,  alas! 
When  I  think  of  one"  who  lies  asleep 

Down  under  the  quiet  grass. 
For  he  loved  me  well,  and  I  loved 
a.'^ain , 

And  low  in  homag?  bent. 
And  prayed  for  his  long  and  prosper 
ous  reig'T, 

In  our  realm  of  sweet  content.     - 


CABY. 


^^ 


But  not  to  tlie  dead  may  the  living 
cliug, 

Nor  kneel  at  an  empty  shrine ;  — 
Tlie  Kinij  Isdiiid,  Ion:/  licet/ie Kiiuj!" 

iSaid  the  Lady  Jaqneline. 

'Once,  caught  by  the  sheen  of  stars 
and  lace, 
1  bowed  for  a  single  day, 
To  a  poor  pretender,  mean  and  base. 

Unfit  for  place  or  sway. 
That  must  have  been  the  work  of  a 
spell, 
For  the  foolish  glamour  fled. 
As  the  sceptre  from  his  weak  hand 
fell.  (head; 

And   tlie   crown   from    his    feeble 
But  homage  true  at  last  I  bring 

To  this  rightful  lord  of  mine. — 
Thi'   King    is    dead,    long    live    the 
King! " 
Said  the  Lady  .Ja(iu<^line. 

*'  By  the  hand  of  one  I  held  most 
dear. 

And  called  my  liege,  my  own! 
1  was  set  aside  in  a  single  year. 

And  a  new  queen  shares  ins  throne. 
To  him  who  is  false,  and  liim  who  is 
wed, 

Shall  1  give  my  fealty  ? 
Nay,  the  dead  one  is  not  half  so  dead 

As  the  false  one  is  to  me! 
My  faith  to  the  faitliful  now  I  bring, 

'i'he  faithless  I  resign ;  — 
The   King    /.s    dead,   long    live    the 
King!  " 

Said  tlie  Lady  Jaqneline. 

"  Yea,  all  my  lovers  and  kings  that 
were 

Are  dead,  and  hid  away. 
In  the  past,  as  in  a  sepulchre. 

Shut  up  till  t'hp  jndgment-dav. 
False  or  fickle,  or  weak  or  wed, 

They  are  all  alike  to  me ; 
And  mine  eyes  no  more  can  be  mis- 
led,— 

They  have  looked  on  loyalty! 
Then   bring  me  wine,  and  garlands 
bring 

For  my  king  of  the  right  divine ;  — 
'tie  King  is  dead,  long  lire  the  King! " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqneline. 


ARCHIE. 


Oil,  to  be  back  in  the  cool  summer 

sliadow 
C>f  that  okl  maple-tree  dowm  in  the 

meadow , 
Watching  the  smiles  that  grew  dearer 

and  dearer, 
Listening  to  lips  that  grew  nearer 

and  nearer: 
Oh,  to  be  back  in  the  crimson-topped 

clover, 
Sitting  again   with  my   Archie,  my 

lover ! 

Oh,  for  the  time  when  I  felt  liis  ca- 
resses 

Smoothing  away  from  my  foreliead 
the  tresses; 

Wlien  up  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek 
went  tl!(>  blushes. 

As  he  said  that  my  voice  Mas  as  sweet 
as  the  tluush's; 

As  he  told  me.  my  eyes  were  be- 
witchingly  jetty, 

And  I  answered  "t  was  only  my  love 
made  them  pretty! 

Talk   not   of  maiden   reserve   or  of 

duty, 
Or  hide  from  my  vision  such  visions 

of  beauty; 
Pulses  above  may  beat  calmly  and 

even, — 
We  have  been  fashioned  for  earth, 

and  not  heaven; 
Angels    are    perfect,    I    am    but    a 

woman ; 
Saints  may  be  passionless,  Archie  is 

liuman. 

Say  not  that  heaven  hath  tenderer 

blisses 
To  her  on  whose  brow  drops  the  soft 

rain  of  kisses; 
Preach  not  the  promise  of  priests  or 

evangels. 
Love-crowned,   who    asks    for    the 

crown  of  the  angels  ? 
Yea,  all  that  the  wall  of  pure  jasper 

encloses. 
Takes  not  the  sweetness  from  sweet 

bridal  roses! 


19^ 


CARY. 


Tell  niP.  that  when  all  this  life  shall 
he  over, 

]  shall  still  love  him,  ami  he  he  my 
lover; 

Tliat  'mid  flowers  more  fragrant  than 
clover  or  heather 

My  Arehie  and  1  shall  he  always  to- 
gether. 

Loving  eternally,  met  ne'er  to  sever. 

Then  you  may  lell  me  of  heaven  for- 
ever. 


COSCLUSIOSS. 

1  SAID,  if  I  might  go  hark  again 
To  the  very  hour  and  place  of  mv 
birth; 
Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  cliose, 
.\nd   live   it   in   any   part    of    the 
earth, 

Put  perfect  sunshine  into  my  sky. 
Banish  the  shadow  of  sorrow  and 
doubt ; 

Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied, 
.Vud  all  my  suffering  stricken  out ; 

If   1  could  have  kuDWii  in  the  years 
now  gone. 
The  best  thai  ix  woman  comes  to 
know ; 
Could   have  iiad  whatever  will  make 
hiT  blest, 
Or  whatever  she  thinks  will  make 
her  so; 

Have  fouml  the  liighest  and  purest 

bl=-- 
That   the  bridal-wn-alli  and   ring 

enclose; 
.\n<l  gai.  •  I   ihc  one  out   of  all  the 

wori  I, 
That  mv  licarl  as  wdl  as  my  reason 

iMiO'-c; 

\nd  if  this  had  been,  and  1  .stood  to- 
night 
I5y   my    clijldii-n,   lying   asleep   in 
their  bfds 
And  could  count  in  my  prayers,  for  a 
rosiry. 
Tho  shining  row  of   their  golden 
bead.s ; 


Yea!  I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 

Could  be  w  rought  for  me,  at  my 

bidding,  still  |is, 

I  would  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it 

And   to  let   mv  future  come  as  it 

will! 

I  would  not  make  the  path  I  have 
trod 
More     pleasant    or    even,     njore 
straight  or  wide; 
Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of 
a  hair, 
This  way  or  that   way,   to  either 
side. 

My  past  is  mine,  and  1  take  it  all; 
Its   weakness, —  its   folly,    if    yc 
l>lease ; 
\ay,  even   mv  sins,  if  von  come  to 
that. 
-May  ha\«'  been  my  heliis,  not  hin- 
drances! 

if  I  saved  my  body  from  the  ll.ui^-s 
Hecause   tiial  once   I   had    lnM.'d 
my  hand; 
Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By  doing  a  le.ss, —  you  will  under- 
stand; 

It  was  better  I  suffered  a  little  pain, 

Belter  I  sinned  for  a  little  time. 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  back  from 
death. 
Ami  the  sling  of  sin  withheld  from 
crime. 

Who   knows  his  strengtli,   by   trial, 
will  know 
What  sirenglli  must  be  .xet  against 
a  sin; 
And  how  temi)tation  is  overcome 
111    h:\^   learned,    wlm   has   felt  its 
powi  T  witliir  ' 

And   who   knows   hou    a  lib'  al   the 
last  may  show  '.' 
Why,    look    at    the     moon     from 
where  we  stand ! 
<>]ia(|ue,    uneven,    you    .say    yet     it 
sliines. 
A   luminous  sphere,  con'.jdetc  and 
grand ! 


CARY. 


^"VT 


So    let    my    past    stand,   just   as   it 
stands, 
And  let  me  now,  as  1  may,  grow 
old; 
I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best. —  or  it  had  not  been,  I 
hold. 


ANSWERED. 

I  THOUGHT  to  find  some  healing 
clime  [shore, 

For  her  I  loved;  she  found  that 
That  city,  whose  inhabitants 

Are  sick  and  sorrowful  no  more. 

I  asked  for  human  love  for  her; 

The  Loving  knew  how  best  to  still 
The  infinite  yearning  of  a  heart, 

Which  but  infinity  could  fill. 

;-ueii  sweet    communion    had   been 
ours 
I  nraved  that  "t  might  never  end; 
My  prayer  is  more  than  answered; 
now 
I  have  an  angel  for  my  friend. 

I  wished  for  perfect  peace,  to  soothe 

The    troubled    anguish     of     her 

breast;  [called, 

All  I,  numbered  with  the  loved  and 
She  entered  on  untroubled  rest. 

Life  was  so  fair  a  thing  to  her, 
I  wept  and  pleaded  for  its  stay; 

ily  wi*ili  was  granted  me,  for  lo! 
yhe  hath  eternal  life  to-<lay. 


Of'A'  HOMESTEAD. 

Orit  oil  brown  homestead  reared  its 
walls 
From  the  way-side  dust  aloof. 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost 
cast 
Their  fruit  upon  its  roof; 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

Tliat  when  awake  I've  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nighls,  I've  heard 
the  limbs 


As  they  creaked  against  the  pane  : 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh  those 
orchard  trees! 

I've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  simimer  breeze. 

The  sweet-briar,  under  the  window- 
sill, 
Which  the  early  birds  made  glad. 
And  the  damask  rose,  by  the  garden- 
fence, 
A\"ere  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since 
then. 
Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier 

But  not  to  me  so  fair; 
For    those    roses    bright,   oh,  those 
roses  bright!  [locks, 

I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight. 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well. 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry. 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the 
mossy  stones 
Were  falling  constantly ; 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so 
sweet 
As  the  draught  which  filled  my  cup. 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  ruile 
old  sweep 
That  my  father's  hand  set  up. 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh  that  deep 
old  well ! 
I  rememl)er  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  heartli. 
Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet : 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always 
kind. 
And  her  smile  was  always  sweet; 
And  there  I've  sat  on  my  father's 
knee, 
i\.nd  watched  his  thoughtful  brow. 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven 
hair. — 
That  hair  is  silver  now! 
liut   that    broad   hearth's   light,  oil, 

that  broad  hearth's  light ! 
And  my  father's  look,  and  my  moth 

er's  .•smile, 
Tliey  are  in  my  heart  to-night! 


1-2S 


a.  AUK. 


LuELLA   Clark. 


IF  ror  i.ori:  me. 

If  yon  love  mo,  tell  mo  not; 
Lot  nio  roiul  it  in  your  thought; 
Lot  mo  fool  it  in  tho  way 
Tiiat  you  say  mo  yoa  and  nay; 

Lot  mo  SCO  it  in  your  eye 
Whi-n  yon  t;root  or  jtass  me  by; 
l.i'I  mo  iicar  it  in  tho  tone 
Mount  for  me  and  mo  ah>ne. 

If  yon  lovo  me,  there  will  l)o 
.Somothin;i  only  I  shall  see; 
Moot  (ir  mis-i  mo,  stay  or  i;o. 
If  yon  lovo  mo.  I  shall  know. 

Somothinu  in  your  tone  will  toll. 
■'  Dear,  I  lovo  you,  lovo  you  well. 


.Somothinj;  in  your  eyes  will  shine 
Fairer  that  they  look  in  mine. 

In  yt)iu'  mion  .some  touch  of  grace. 
Some  swift  smile  upon  your  face 
While  you  spoak  not.  will  i)otray 
\Vhat  your  lips  could  scarcely  .siiy. 

In  your  si)eeeh  some  silver  wonl, 
Ttniing  into  sweet  aoeord 
.Ml  your  hluntness  will  i-eveal, 
Unaware,  the  love  yon  feel. 

If  you  love  mo,  thou,  I  pray. 
Toll  mo  not,  liul,  day  liy  day. 
Lot  love  silonl  on  in<'  rise, 
IJkc  the  Sim  in  sunnner  skies. 


Sarah    D.   Clark. 


77/ A'  SOI.hASHLI.A. 

I.N  llio  warm  valloy,  rich  in  .Htuntner's 
woallh. 

Wlioro  tan^loil  w I  and  slinil)  iliin 

loa\os  unoloso. 
Trofuso     and      liardv     in     InsMriant 
h.-allli. 
'i'ho  Suldanolla  grows. 

Flow   canio    il    Irondiliu!,'   in   tho   icy 

Common  —  if  an^ht  l»o   oonimon    in'  L;loum 

(Jod'soaro  W  lii-ro   aw  lid    slippcs  and   fiuxvning 

its  btidt  no   lioaulv  .show    to   charm  ^laciors  li^ 


I'nliko.  ,ind  v«'t  the  same,  its  petals 
Mow 

.Most     liko     a     crystal    lily     in     tin- 
air: 

.\    droani   of  hoauty  'mid   tho  cliocr 
loss  snow, — 
\  comfort  in  despair. 


till-  <'yo. 
\nr  lirarcf  (d  ponoillings  in  cidors  ran-. 
I'.Mi'liant  I  ho  passor-hy. 

V"t.  on   yon   distant    hoi;,dils  <if   ico- 
poarlod  siinw. 


S(i    marvollmis    in    prosoncc   and    in 
lilooni 
Kvon  III  auLiolic  oyos  ? 

While  thus  I  mused,  the  fragile  blos- 
>ni  si-oniod 


Whoro  mortals  barely  can  a  iialbw.iy  i  inslinii    with    life,   a  spirit-form   to 


Iraoo, 

Ibe  .Mpiiio  blnssMin  of  the  valo  bo- 
low 
lilouiuH  In  otln-roal  grace. 


take: 

Its  frin!,'or!  I'orolla  with  now  ra«liauce 
boami'd 
\  voiio  within  il  spake;  — 


CLEMMEE. 


129 


I 


'  ^n  11  mangel  on  these  aiiy  fioltl>  of 

Take,  with  the  fragrance  of  my  lat- 

sjiare 

e^t  breath. 

]\Iy  U'lidcr  fomi  emei'gent  to  behold, 

'111 is  lesson  to  thy  heart: 

A  blossom  of  the  skies  —  my  name  they 

, trace 

"  Go  thou,  to  triumph  in  some  glori- 

With ^itars  and  suns  euroiled. 

ous  strife, 

Through    daring  paths   some  noble 

"  Thoutjh  born  and  nurtured  in  the 

cause  retrieve; 

lowly  vale, 

Seek,  to  the  highest  measure  of  thy 

Ignoble   ease   I  was  not  doomed  to 

life, 

bear; 

Thy  purpose  to  achieve. 

I  i)ined  to  sc'ale  the  heights  where 

eagles  sail. 

"  (xo  tell  th(>  world,  in  Freedom's  bat- 

And paled  for  Freetloin's  air! 

tle  drawn. 

For  one  brief  hour,   its  horoscope  I 

"  Not  without  toil  my  painful  steps 

see; 

were  bent 

Tell    one   by   one   who  fall,    'Swift 

Through   paths  imijerllled,  and   the 

conies  the  dawn 

icy  sea. 

To  herald  victoiy.'  " 

From  Alp  to  Alp  1  gained  my  steep 

ascent. 

It    ceased  —  the  murmur  died   upon 

And  hard-won  victory  1 

mine  ear. 

Straightway  a  threatening  blast  the 

'  If  these  pale  lips,  so  soon  to  close 

trumpet  gave; 

ill  death, 

The  next  wind  bore  the  seedling  of 

Jne  touch  of  hope  or  solace  can  im- 

the year 

part, 

On  to  its  snowy  grave! 

Mary  Clemmer. 


wonns  Foi:  I'Airrixc. 

On,  what  shall  I  do,  dear. 

In  the  coming  years.  1  wonder. 
When  our  paths,  which  lit;  so  sweetly 
near, 

Shall  lie  so  far  asunder  ? 
Oh,  what  shall  1  do.  dear. 

Through  all  the  sad  to-morrows. 
When  the  sunny  smile  has  ceased  to 
eheer 

That  smiles  away  my  sorrows? 

W'hat  shall  I  do,  my  friend, 

When  you  are  gone  forever  ? 
My  heart  its  eager  need  will  send 
Through    the    years    to    find    yon 
never. 
And  how  will  it  be  w  ilh  you. 
In  tlie  weary  world,  I  wonder, 


Will  you  love  me  with  a  love  as  true. 
When  our  paths  lie  far  asunder  ? 

A  sweeter,  sadder  thing 

My  life,  for  having  known  you; 
lM>rever  with  my  -aered  kin. 

My  soul's  soul  I  must  own  you. 
Forever  mine,  my  friend. 

From  .lune  lo  litVs  December; 
Not  mine  to  have  or  hold, 

IJut  to  pray  for  and  remember. 

The  way  is  short,  O  fiiend, 

That  reaches  out  before  us; 
(rod's  tend(M'  heavens  above  us  bond 

His  love  is  smiling  o'er  us; 
A  little  while  is  ours 

For  soirow  or  for  laughter; 
I'll  lay  I  he  h;md  yon  love  in  yours 

( )n  the  shore  of  the  Hereafter. 


130 


CLEMMER. 


NANTASKET. 

Kaik  is  tliy  faoo,  Nantaskot, 

Aiul  fair  tliy  ciirviii'^  slioros. — 
Till'  iH'criiiLC  spin-s  i>f  \ilia^t's. 

Tilt'  l)oatman's  ilippiiii;  oars, 
rht>  limcly  It'dgt'  of  Minot, 

Wlioro    the    watohinan    tends   his 
light. 
And  sots  his  ])<>rilous  hcaoon, 

A  star  in  the  stormiest  night. 

Over  thy  vast  sea  highway. 

The  grt-at  ship-;  slide  from  sight. 
And  lloeks  of  winged  phantoms 

Flit  hy.  like  hir.is  in  tli'^hl. 
Over  the  topiding  sea-wall 

The  home-hound  dories  (loat. 
And  I  watch  the  patient  fisherman 

Bend  in  his  amhored  boat. 

I  am  alone  with  Nature; 

With  the  glad  S.  piember  day. 
The  leaning  hills  above  nie 

With  gol<len-rod  are  gay, 
Aeross  tlif  tirlils  of  ether 

Flit  liutterllies  at  play, 
Ami  eones  of  garnet  sumacli 

f;l(jw  down  the  country  way. 

The  autiunn  dand<lion 

Along  till-  road->iili'  iiurns; 
Down  from  ibc  lii'hciicd  boulders 

Quiver  the  plumed  fi-rns; 
Theeieam-whitc  >,ilk  of  the  milkweed 

Floats  from  its  sea-green  pod; 
Out  from  the  mossy  roek-sitams 

Flashes  the  golden-rod. 

I'he  woodbine's  scarlet  banners 

i-'launt  from  their  towers  of  stone; 
Tiie  wan.  wild  mr»riiing-'_'lory 

!)ie,  bv  the  mad  alone; 
IJy  the  hill-path  to  tlie  s.'jiside 

Wave  niyriiid  a/un-  bells; 
And  over  the  grassy  nimpartv  lean 

The  milky  immortelles. 

Hosts  of  gold-heartetl  il.llsies 

Nod  by  llie  wayside  liars; 
The  tangled  ihiekel  of  green  is  .set 

With  the  ji.sler'8  purple  slaiT*; 


Reside  the  brook  the  gentian 

Closes  its  fringed  eyes. 
And  wails  the  later  glory 

Of  October's  yellow  skiea. 

Within  the  sea-washed  meadow 

The  wild  grape  climbs  the  wall. 
And  from  the  o'er-rii»e  chestiuits 

The  brown  bui"s  .softly  fall. 
I  see  the  tall  re<>ds  shiver 

Beside  th<'  salt  sea  marge; 
1  see  the  sea-bird  glinnner. 

Far  out  on  airy  barge. 

1  hear  in  the  groves  of  Ilingham 

The  friendly  caw  of  the  erow. 
Till  I  sit  again  in  Waehnsett's  woods 

In  August's  snin]>tiious  glow. 
Tlu'  tiny  boom  of  tlie  beetle 

.Strikes  the  shining  rocks  below; 
The  gauzy  oar  of  the  dragon-tly 

Is  beating  to  and  fro. 

.\s  the  lovely  ghost  of  the  thistle 

<Joes  sailing  softly  by; 
(ilad  in  its  second  sinnmer 

Hums  flic  awakened  fly; 
The  cunudate  cry  of  the  cricket 

I'ierccs  the  amber  noon; 
In  from  the  vast  sea-s]iaces  comes 

The  I'lear  call  of  the  loon; 
Over  and  through  it  all  1  hear 

Ocean's  jicrvasive  nme. 

.\gainst  the  warm  sea-beaches 

liush  the  wavelets'  eager  lips; 
Away  o'<'r  the  sapphire  reaclu's 

Move  on  the  stately  ships. 
I'eace  floats  on  all  their  pennons, 

.Sailing  silently  the  main, 
.\s  if  never  human  anguish. 

As  if  never  hinnan  pain. 
.Souulit  the  healing  draught  ni  l.cthr 

Iteyond  the  gleanung  plain. 

Fair  is  the  earth  liebiud  me, 

^'asl  is  the  sea  i»efore, 
.\way  througii  the  misty  dimness 

(ilimmers  a  further  sliore. 
It  is  no  realm  enchanted. 

It  cannot  be  more  fair 
Than  this  nook  of  .Nature's  Kingdom, 

With  it^  spell  uf  space  and  air. 


CLOUOH. 


131 


WAITING. 
I    WAIT, — 

Till  from  my  veileil  brows  shall  fall 
This    ballliiiir    cloud,   this  wearying 

'  thrall,'^ 
Which  holds  me  now  from  knowing 

all; 
Until  my  si)irit-sight  shall  see 
Into  all  being's  mystery. 
See  what  it  really  is  to  be ! 


I  wait, — 
While  rolling  days  in  mockery  fling 
.Such  cruel  loss  athwai-t  my  spring. 
And  life  flags  on  with  broken  wing; 
Believing  that  a  kindlier  fate 


The  patient  soul  will  compensate 
For  all  it  loses,  ere  too  late. 

I  wait! 
For  surely  every  scanty  seed 
I  plant  in  weakness  and  in  need 
Will  blossom  in  perfected  deed ! 
Mine  eyes  shall  see  its  affluent  crown, 
Its  fragrant  fruitage,  drojiping  down 
Care's  lowly  levels,  bare  and  brown! 

I  wait! 
The  summer  of  the  soul  is  long. 
Its  hai-vests  yet  shall  round  me  throng 
In  perfect  pomp  of  sun  and  song. 
In  stormless  mornings  yet  to  be 
I'll  pluck  from  life's  full-fruited  tree 
The  joy  to-day  denied  to  me. 


Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


NO  MORE. 

My  wind  has  turned  to  bitter  north. 

That  was  so  soft  a  south  before ; 
My  sky,  that  shone  so  sunny  bright, 

With  foggy  gloom  is  clouded  o'er; 
My  gay  green  leaves  are  yellow-black 

lipou  the  dark  autumnal  floor; 
For  love,  departed  once,  comes  back 

No  more  again,  no  more. 

A  roofless  ruin  lies  my  home, 

For  winds  to   blow   and   rains  to 
pour; 
Oiii'  frosty  night  befell  —  and  lo! 

i  find  my  smnmer  days  are  o'er. 
;  'h'  heart  Ix-rcaved.of  why  and  how 

Unknowing,  knows  that  yet  before 
Jt  had  what  e'en  to  memory  now 

Returns  no  more,  no  more. 


BECALMED   AT  EVE. 

As  sliips,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
•    With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 
Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  ai)art  des- 
cried; 


"\Mien  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the 
breeze, 
And   all   llie  darkling  hours  they 
plied ; 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same 
seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  un- 
■     changed. 
Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel. 
Astounded,    soiU    from    soul    es- 
tranged. 

At    dead   of  night  their  sails  were 

filled, 

And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  • 

Ah !  neither  blamed,  for  ueit  iier  willed 

Or  wist  what  first  with  dawn  ap 

peared. 

To    veer,    how    vain!    On.   onwanl 
strain, 
Brave  barks !    In  light,  in  darkness 
too! 
Through  winds  and  fides  one  com- 
pass guides  — 
To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true 


i:v2 


CLOUQH. 


Hut  <)  Itlitlit'  brppzpland  O  great  soas. 
Tluuuii  ne'er  that  earliest  partin;^ 

( »u  your  uiilc  jlain  they  join  aj^ain, 
To.Ljether  Itad  them  hoiin-  at  last. 

One    iiort,    niethouglit.    alike     they 
soiijiht  — 
One    [Mirpose    hold    where'er    they 
fare; 
»  i><)undin;:;  liree/.e.  ()  nisliinjx  seas, 
Ai  last,  al  hiMt  nnile  them  Iliere! 


N.irr/!.t  x.trrn.ixs. 

Iti;sii)K  me, —  in  tlie  ear, —  she  sat; 

She  spake  not,  no,  nor  looked  to 
me. 
FiKiii  her  to  jnc.  from  me  to  her. 

What  jiasst'd  so  subtly,  stealthily? 
As  rose  to  ruse,  that  hy  it  blows. 

Its  inter<hani;<-d  aroma  Miiii;s; 
Or  wake  to  sound  of  one  sweet  note 

The  virtues  of  ilisparted  strinijs. 

Heside  me,  noii;:ht   but   this'.'  —  but 
this. 

That  inlluent ;  as  within  me  dwelt 
llcr  liti':  mine  too  within  her  bicast. 

Ili'r  brain,  her  every  limit,  she  felt. 
^Ve  sat :  w  bile  o'er  and  in  us,  more 

.\nil  moi«'.  a  ])ower  unknown  i»re- 
vailed. 
Iidialinu' and  inhaled. —  and  still 

"I'was  one,  iidialim;  or  inhaled. 

Hesiile    me,    nought    but    this:   and 
jtassed  — 

1  passeil;  and  know  not  to  this  day 
if  L,'old  or  jri  b<r  ;,'irlisli  hair  — 

If  blaek,  or  brown,  (»r  lui'id-L;ray 
Her  eye's  young  glanec.     The  liekle 
ehanee 

That  joined  us  yet  may  join  ai,'ain: 
Itiit  I  no  fare  again  eoiild  ;;reel 

Ah  he:-s,  whose  life  was  in  me  then. 

As  unsuspecting  mere  a  maid  — 
,\s  frexli  in   mHidluMMl's  bloomiest 
bloom  — 

In  easiial  siTond-elass  did  e'er 
liy  easiial  youth  her  seal  assume; 


Or  vestal,  say,  of  saintliest  elay. 
For  once  iiy  bahniest  aii-s  beii-ayed 

I'nto  emotions  too,  too  sweet 
To  be  unlingeriugly  gainsaid. 

rnowning  then,  eonfusing  .soon 
[      Willi    dreamier   dreams    that   o'er 
I  the  glass 

Of  shyly  ripening  woman-sense 

llelleeted,  scarce  reflected,  pass  — 
A  wife  may  be,  a  mother,  she 

In  Hymen's  shrine  recalls  not  now 
She  lirst  —  in  hour,  ah,  not  jnofane!  — 
With  me  to  Hymen  learnt  to  bow. 

Ah  no!  —  yet  owned  we,  fused  in  one. 

The  power  whieh,  e'en   in  stones 
and  earths 
IJy  blind  cK^ctions  felt,  in  forms 

Organic  breeds  to  myriad  births; 
IJy  lichen  small  on  granite  wall 

Approved,  its  faintest,  feeblesi  stii 
.Slow-sprea<ling,  strengthening  long, 
at  last 

^'ibratcd  full  in  me  and  her. 

In  me  and  Inr sensation  strangel 

The  lily  gi<v.  lojicndrnt  beatl; 
'I'o  vernal  aii-s  the  mossy  baidc 

Its  sheeny  iiriniros«'<-pnie:lcsspread ; 
In  roof  o'er  roof  of  shade  sun-proof 

Did  cedar  strong  itself  outclimb: 
And  altitude  of  aloe  proutl 

.Vsjtire  in  lloral  crown  sublime; 

Flashed     llickering     forth     fantastic 
Hies; 

Hig  bees  (heir  burly  bo«lieH  swung; 
l.'ooks  roused  w  jib  civic  din  the  elms; 

And  lark  its  wild  reveille  rung; 
In  Libyan  dell  the  light  gazelle. 

The  leo]i;ird  lithe  in  Indian  glade. 
And  dolphin,  briubtcning  tropic  seas, 

hi  us  were  living,  leapt  and  played. 

'i'heir  shells  did  slow  crustacea  build  ; 
Thi'ir  gilded   skins  did  snakes  re- 
new; 
\Vbilc  ndghticr  s)>incs  for  loftier  kind 
'J'hcir  ty|Ms  in  amplest   lind>s  out- 
grew ;  , 
Yea,  eloMi'  eomju-est  in  human  lircasf. 
What  nioHM,  and   tree,  mid  lisclier 
thiny- 


COLERIDGE. 


isr 


What  Eartli,  Siin,  Star,  of  force  pos- 
sest, 
Lay  buckling,  burgeoning  forth  for 
spring! 

Such  sweet  inehuling  sense,  of  old 

Led  on  in  Kdi'n's  sinless  place 
The      hour    when    bodies      human 
first 
Combined  the  primal,  prime  em- 
brace ; 
Such  genial  lieat  the  blissful  seat 
In    man    and    woman  owned   im- 
blamed, 


When,  nakod  both,  its  garden  paths 
They     walked      unconscious,     un- 
ashamed; 

Ere,  clouded  vet  in  mightiest  dawn. 

Above  the  horizon  dusk  and  dun, 
One  mountain  crest  with  light  had 
tipped 

That  orb  that  is  the  spirit's  sun; 
Ere  dreamed  young  flowers  'u  vernal 
showers 

Of  fruit  to  rise  the  flower  above. 
Or  ever  yet  to  young  Desire 

Was  told  the  mystic  name  of  love. 


Hartley  Coleridge. 


ADDRESS  TO   CEIITAIN  GOLD- 
FISHES. 

Restless  forms  of  living  Hght 
Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings, 
Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 
With  a  thousand  shadowings; 
Various  as  the  tints  of  even, 
Corgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven, 
Reflected  on  yoiu-  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams! 
llaiinlfss  warriors,  clad  in  mail 
Of  siher  breasti)late,  golden  scale;  — 
Mail  of  Nature's  own  bestowing, 
\\'ilh  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glow- 
ing— 
y\vei  are  ye  as  fleetest  galley 
Or  pirate  rover  sent  from  Sallee; 
iveener  than  the  Tartar's  arrow, 
ISport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire  ? 
Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire? 
Or  of  the  shadf  of  golilen  flowers, 
Such  as  we  fetch  from  Eastern  bow- 
ers, 
To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours  ? 
I'pwards.  downwards,  now  ye  glance. 
Weaving  many  a  mazy  dance; 
Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size 
When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes  — 
Pretty  creatures!  we  might  deem 
Ye  wen-  happy  as  ye  seem  — 


As  gay,  as  g^unesome,  and  as  blithe, 
As  light,  as  ioviim,  and  as  lithe. 
As  gladly  o;irnest  in  your  play, 
As  when  ye  gleamed  in  far  Cathay. 

And  yet.  since  on  this  hapless  earth 
There's  small  sincerity  in  mirth. 
And  laughter  oft  is  I>ut  an  art 
To  drown  the  oiUcry  of  the  heart; 
It  may  he  that  your  ceaseless  gambols, 
Your   wheelings,   darlings,    divings, 

rambles, 
Yotu"  restless  roving  rotind  an<l  round, 
The  circuit  of  your  crystal  hound  — 
Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain, 
An  endless  labor,  dull  and  vain; 
And  while  your  forms  are  gaily  shin 

ing. 
Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining! 
\ay — but  still  I  fain  would  dreani 
That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 


THF    FLIGHT  OF    YOUTH. 

YoiTTii,   thou  art  fled.  —  biu  where 

arc  all   the  charms 
Which,  lhou;:b  with  thee  they  came, 

and  passed  with  tli'>c. 
Should   have  a  perfmnc  and   sweet 

UKMUory 


COLERIDGE. 


Of  what  they  have  been?       All  thy 

boons  and  luinns 
Haw  pi-rishtil    (|uilL'.        Thy  oft-rp- 

vi'ivil  alarms 
l-orsakc  the  fluttering  echo.     Smiles 

and  tears 
Die  on  my  cheek,  or,  petrilied   with 

\ears. 
Show  the  dull  woe  which  no  compas- 
sion warms. 
The  mirth  none  shares.     Yet  could 

a  wish,  a  thought, 
I'nravcl    all    the    complex    web    of 

a^c,  — 
<'ould  all  the  characters  that  Time 

hath  wroui^ht 
IJc  clean  effaced  from  my  memorial 

page 
15y  one  short  word,  the  word  I  would 

not  say; — 
I  thank  my  (iod  because  my  hairs  are 

gray. 


And    the   gaunt   woods,    in    ragged, 

scant  array. 
Wrap   their  olil   limbs  with  sombre 

ivY-twine. 


soniMiiF.n. 

TiiK   mellow   y<'ar   is  hasting  to  its 

close ; 
The    little   birds   have  almost    simg 

their  last. 
Their    small    notes    twitt<T    in    the 

dreary  blast  — 
That  shrill-piiied  harbinger  of  early 

snows;  — 
The  i>atienl  Iteauiy  of  the  scentless 

rose, 
<  ift    with   the    morn's    hoar  crystal 

(piaintly  glassed, 
Ilaiii;s  a  pale  mourner  for  thi!  siun- 

mer  past, 
An  I  makes  a  little  sunnuer  where  it 

'_'rows;  — 
hi  tie  ejiiil  sunbeam  of  the  faintbrief 

dav 
11   •   dusky  waters  shudder  as  they 

shine; 
The  russet  leaves  obstruct   the  strag- 

udin^i  way 
Of  oo/y  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks 

deline, 


SO  LIFE   VAIN. 

Lkt  me  not  deem  that  I  was  made 

in  vain. 
Or  that  my  being  was  an  accident, 
Which  fate,  in  working  its  sublime 

intent. 
Not  wisheil  to  be,  to  hinder  would 

not  deign. 
Each  drop  uncounted  in  a  storm  of 

rain 
Ilath  its  own   mission,  antl   is   duly 

sent 
To  its  own  leaf  or   blaile,   not    idly 

spent 
'Mid  myriad  <limples  on  the  shipless 

main. 
The  vei-y  shallow  of  an  insect's  wing. 
For  which  the  violet  cared  not  while 

it  stayed. 
Yet  felt  the  lighter  for  its  vanishing. 
Proved  that  Ilie  sun  was  shining  by 

its  shade: 
Then  can  a  droi)  of  the  eternal  spring, 
Shadow  of  living  lights,  in  vain  be 

n»ade'.' 


Sin-;  is  not  fair  to(»ui\Naid  view, 

As  many  maidens  be. 
Her  liveliness  I  never  knew 

I'util  she  smiled  on  n>c; 
Oh,  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  sjiring  of  light. 

Hut  now  her  looks  an*  coy  and  cold 
'I'o  mine  Ihey  ne'er  reply; 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
'I'he  loveliu'ht   III  her  eye. 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 

'{'ban  Slllil'-^  ■.(   iillii  r  iiriiiliils  ;ire 


COLERIDGE. 


135 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


[Passages  from  Th<-  Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner.] 

THE  SHIP  BECALMED. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam 

flew. 
The  furrow  followed  free; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea, 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky. 
The  bloody  sim,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
AVe  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water,  everywhere. 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


rilE  AXCIENT  MAlilNER    REFRESHED 
BY  SLEEP  AND  RAIN- 

0  SLEEP !  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Maiy  (|ueen,the  praise  be  given! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 
That  bad  so  long  remained, 

1  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with 

dew; 
And  when  I  awoke  it  rained. 

My   lips   were   wet,    my   throat   was 

cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank. 


Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

1    moved,    and    could   not  feel   my 

limbs: 
1  was  so  light  —  almost 
1  thought  that  1  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


THE   VOICES   OF  THE  ANGELS. 

Around,    arotmd,   flew  each  sweet 

sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  sun; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
1  heard  the  sky-lark  sing; 
Sometimes  all  litlie  birds  that  are. 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and 

air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
No^^•  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  liidilen  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  .June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  time. 


PENANCE  or  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER, 
AND  HIS  REVERENT  TEACHING. 

FouTiiwiTii  this  frame  of  mine  was 

wn'uclit'il 
With  a  woful  agony, 
Wliicli  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale: 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then  at -an  uncertain  hour, 
'I'hat  agony  retiuns: 
.'vud  (ill  my  ghastly  tale  is  told 
Tills  heart  within  me  burns. 


COL  EU I  DOE. 


I  imss,  liki'  ii-j^lil.  from  laml  to  hind; 
I  h:ivc  sliaiiiif  power  «>l"  sp»>i>c'li : 
riiiit  iiioiiH'lit  lliat  liis  t'iUH-  I  sec, 
I  know  I  lie  man  lliat  nnist  ht-ar  nie: 
To  him  my  laie  1  Uacli. 

What  louil  uproar  bui-sts  from   thai 

.lonr! 

Tlif  \\(M|ilin.i,'-.i,nu'st.s  art-  then-: 
Iliil  in  till'  iianifn-liowtT  the  brUU^ 
Ami  iMiilcmaids  sin^int,'  an-: 
Anil  haik  tin-  lillh"  vcsptT  Im'11, 
Whi'h  hiddcth  nii'  to  prayer! 

()    \Viddini,'-(;n(>t !    this    soul    hath 

been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea: 
So  lonely   iwa*;.  that  Uod  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

()  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
'i'o  walk  toicether  to  the  kirk, 
With  a  -^'oodly  company! 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  loi,'elher  pray, 

W  liile  eaeii  to  hi>  great  Fatln'r  bends, 

old    men,    iinil    babes,    and    loving 

friends 
And  yonths  and  maidens  gay! 

Farewell,  farewell!  but  this  I  (ell 
'I'o  thee. thou  \\  <ddinii-<;nesl ! 
lie  pray<'th  well,  who  |o\elli  well 
liolh  man  and  bird  and  beasl. 

lb'  prayeih  be-l,  who  lovelh  best 
All  things  boili  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  (ioil  who  loveib  ns, 
ile  madi-  and  lo\etli  all. 

Tin-  Mariner,  wliose  eye  is  bright, 
WliMM'  beard  with  age  if«  hoar. 
Is  gom-:  and  now  ihe  S\  e«lding-(  Jnesl 
Turned  from  the  liritlegroom's  door. 

He    wejil    like    one    that    halh    been 

Hlnnned, 
And  K  of  •'ense  fmloin : 
A  sadder  and  a  w  iser  man. 
IJe  rose  the  morrow  nioiri. 


[Fniii  Christahfl.] 

nnoKK.s  rn//-:\/)su/rs. 

Ai.A.s!  they   had   been    friends   in 

yonth; 
Bnt  wlnsp»Ming  tongues  can  poison 

trnih: 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above; 
And    life    is    lliorny;   and    yonth    is 

vain; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 
Doih  work  like  niaunessin  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  ehaneed.  as  1  divine. 
With  Kolanil  and  .sir  Keoline. 
Kach  Npakt'  words  of  higii  ilisdain 
And  insult  to  his  hi-arls  best  brother: 
They  paried  —  ne'er  to  meet  again! 
Hut  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  liollow  heart  froui  pain 

ing  — 
They  slood  aloof,  the  scars  renianinig. 
Likeelitfs  whiih  had  been  reiU  asun- 

d.-r 
A  dreary  sea  now  Hows  between;  — 
Hut  neiiiier  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thun- 
der. 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  1  ween. 
The  marks  "of  that    which  onee  hath 

been. 


[/■'mm  Till-  'I'lirti-  Craves.] 
IIKI.I.   ASh   lilntOK. 

"lis  sweet  to  h<'ar  a  brook,  'tis  .sweet 

To  hear  th<'  .Sabbath-bell. 
'Tis  sweet  to  be.ir  llieui  both  at  once, 

Deep  in  a  woody  ilell. 


{From  lh-Jtcliim.\ 

\  <.i:u.i    without  a  pang,  void    dark, 
.and  drear. 
A   stilled,   drowsy,    unimpassloned 

grii'f. 
Which   (inds  no  iialm:il    lutlei,  no 
relief. 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear  — 
()   lad>  !    in    this  wan  an<l    heaillesa 

Uioixl, 


COLERIDOE. 


18T 


To  other  thoughts  by  yondor  throsfle 

wooed, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  Ijiilmy  and  se- 
rene, 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western 

sky, 
And    its    pecular    tint    of    yellow 

green : 
Am!    still    1    gaze  —  and    with   how 

blank  an  eye ! 
Ann    ^bose    thin    clouds    above,   in 

flakes  and  b;ir.s, 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the 

stars ; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them 

or  between. 
Now  si)arkling,  now  bedimmed,  but 

always  seen : 
You  crescent  moon  as  fixed  as  if  it 

grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of 

blue ; 
I  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 
1  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are! 

My  genial  spirits  fail: 
And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from 
off  my  breast  ? 
It  Avero  a  vain  endeavor, 
Though  I  slionld  gaze  forever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in 

the  west : 
I  may  not  hope  from  out\Aard  forms 

to  win 
The   passion    and    the    life,    whose 
fomitains  are  within. 

O  Lady !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live: 

Ours  is  her  wedding-ganneiTt,   ours 
her  shroud ! 
And   would   we  aught  behold,   of 
higher  worth. 

Than  tliat  inanimate  cold  world  al- 
lowed 

To   the    poor  loveless,  ever-anxious 
crowd, 
Ah!  from  Ihe  soul  itself  must  issue 
forth, 

AMght,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  floiii! 
P^nvi'li'pin;;  !lu'  eartli  — 

And  from  the  soul  itself  must  tlicic 
be  sent 


A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its 
own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  soimds  the  'ife  and  ele- 
ment! 

O  pure  of  heart!  thou  need'st  not 
ask  of  me 

What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul 
may  be  I 

What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist. 

This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  lumi- 
nous mist, 

This    beautiful    and    beauty-making 
pou  er. 
Joy,     virtuous    lady,  —  joy    that 
ne'er  was  given, 

Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest 
hour. 

Life,   and   life's  effluence,   cloud  at 
once  and  shower 

Joy,  lady,  is  the  spirit  and  the  power, 

V>'hich  V\edding  Nature  to  us  gives 
in  dower. 
A  new  earth  and  new  heaven. 

Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the 
proud  — 

Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  joy  the  lumi- 
nous cloud  — 
We  in  ourselves  rejoice! 

And  thence  flows  all  that  chaims  or 
ear  or  sight. 
All    melodies   the  echoes  of  that 
voice, 

All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my 

path  was  luugh. 
This  joy  within   me  dallied  -nith 

distress. 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the 

stuff 
Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of 

happiness: 
For  hope  grew  round   me,  like  the 

twining  \\]'.i\ 
Anil  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own, 

sccukmI  mine. 
Uut  now  alllictions  l»ow  me  down  to 

earth: 
Nor  rare  1  that  they  rob  me  of  my 

iiiirth, 
l>nt  oil!  each  visitation 
SiMpends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my 

birth, 


138 


COLERIDGE. 


My  shaping;  spirit  of  iinai,'iiiation. 
For  not  to  tliiiik   of   wliui    I    lu'oil.s 
uiiLsl  feel. 
But  to  Itf  slill   and   patient,   all    1 
can; 
And   haply  by  abstruse  research  to 
steal 
From  Hiy  own  nature  all  the  nat- 

mal  man  — 
This  was  my  sole  resource,  ray  only 
]ilan: 
Till   that  which  suits  a  part  infects 

the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  i^iown  the  habit 
of  my  soul. 

Hence,    viper    thoii'jhts,     that    coil 

around  my  min<l. 
Reality's  ilark  dream  I 
1  tuin  from  you,  and  listen  to  the 

wind, 

Thou   actor,   perfect   in   all   tragic 
sounds! 
Thou   miiiluy   poet,   e'en    to  frenzy 

bold: 

What  lellst  thou  now  about? 
'Tis  of  tiie  rushinii  of  a  host  in 
rout. 
With  Ki'oans  of  tramjiled  men,  with 
smart inu'  wounds  — 
At  once   liii-y  .^roan   with   jiain,  and 

siuiddiT  with  the  cold! 
I  Jul  hush  !  there  is  a  paiLsc  of  deepest 
silence! 
And  all  Mial  noise,  as  of  a  iiishin;,' 
(Towd, 
Willi  groans,  antl  tremulous  shudder- 
ill'4^  — all  i-<  o\ei-  — 
It    tells  another  tale,  with  soumls 
less  deep  and  Nnid  I 
A  tale  of  less  al]ri;(bl. 
And  temjiered  with  dcliKhl, 
As  (^)t\vay's  self  had  framed  the  ten- 
der lay, 
"lis  of  a  lilth'  child 
I'pon  a  lonesome  wild. 
Not  far   from    iionie,    but   she    hath 

liisi  her  way: 
And  now  moans  low   in   bitter  ;{rief 

and   fear. 
And  now  s4  reams  Imid,  and  hopes  to 
make  her  mother  hear. 


HIMN  BEFORE  SCXJilSE  IX  THk 
VALLEY  OF  (HlMOLKI. 

IIast  thi)u  a  charm  to  stay  the 
morning-star 

In  his  steep  cour.se?  So  long  he 
seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald  aufid  h.ad,  O  sovran 
Blanc! 

The  Arv6  and  Arveiron  at  thv 
base 

Rave  ceaselesslv;  but  thou,  most  aw- 
ful form! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of 
pines. 

How  silently  I  Around  tht-e  and  above 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial, 
black, 

Au  ebon  uuiss:  melhinks  thou  pierc- 
e.st  it, 

As  with  a  wedge!  But  when  I  look 
ai^ain. 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crys- 
tal shrine. 

Thy  haliilalion  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  mount!  1  gazed 

upon  thee. 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodilv 
sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought:  en- 
tranced in  prayer 

1  worshiiii)ed  the  Invisible  alone. 

Vet.    like    some    sweet    beguiling 

melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listen- 
ing to  it. 
Thou.  i!\c  meanwhile,  wast  blending 

with  m>  ibouubt. 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  .se- 

«rct  joy : 
Till     the     dilating     .soul,     enwnijjt, 

transfuHctl, 
Into    the    mighty   vision    passing  — 

then,' 
As  in  her  natunil  form,  swelled  vast 

lo  Heaven! 

Awake,  my  snid!  not  only  p.issivo 

praise 
Thou  owest!  not  alone  these  swelling 

tears. 
Mute     thanks    and    secret    ecstasy! 

.  V  wake, 


COLE  R  WOE. 


13S 


Voice  of  sweet  song.     Awake,   my 

heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my 

hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran 

of  the  vale! 
Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all 

the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of 

stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when 

they  sink: 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at 

dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the 

dawn 
Co-herald :  wake,  oh,  wake,  and  utter 

praise! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in 

earth  ? 
Who    tilled    tliy    coimtenance    with 

rosy  light  ? 
Wlio  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual 

streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents 
fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and 
utter  death. 

From  dark  anil  icy  caverns  called  you 
forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jag- 
ged rocks. 

For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for 
ever  ? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Youi  strength,  your  speed,  youi-fury, 
and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thmider  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  si- 
lence canit',) 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have 
rest? 

Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the 
mountain's  brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope 
amain  — 

Torrents,  uiethinks,  that  heard  a 
mighty  voice. 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  tlieir  mad- 
dest plunge ! 

Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts  J 


Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates 

of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?    Who 

bade  the  stui 
Clothe    you   with   rainbows?     Who, 

with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at 

your  feet  ?  — 
God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of 

nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo, 

God! 
God!  sing  ye  meadow-streams,  with 

gladsome  voice ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and 

soul-like  sounds! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles 

of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thun- 
der, God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eter- 
nal frost! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the 
eagle's  nest! 

Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain 
storm ! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 
clouds! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  lulls 
with  praise! 

Thou  too,  hoar  moinit!  with  thy 
sky-pointing  i)eaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche, 
unheard. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through 
the  pure  serene 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil 
thy  breast  — 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  moun- 
tain! thou 

That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile 
bowed  low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

blow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suf- 
fused with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory 
cloiKl, 

To  rise  before  me  —  Uise,  O  ever 
rise, 

Kise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  tlw 
earth! 


140 


C(H.  FRIDGE. 


Tliou  kinjilv  spirit  throned  among 

111."  hills. 
Thou  iln';ul  aniljassador  from  Earth 

to  Utavcii. 
Great  hU'rarfh!  till  tliou  the  sih-nt 

sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  toll  yon  risinj; 

sun. 
Earth,    with    her    thousand    voit-es, 

praises  Goil. 


LOVE    HOPE  AND  PATIEXCE   IX 
KDl'CATloS. 

D'ku    wayward   chihlhood    wouid'st 

thou  hold  firm  rule. 
And  sun  llu-c  in  the  li.i,'lit  of  happy 

fa<'cs; 
Love,     Hope,     and     Patience,     these 

nnist  he  thy  graces. 
And  in  liiine  nun  heart  let  them  liist 

kee|.srh....l. 


■d  part  them  never!     If  hojie   pros- 
!  trail'  lie. 

I.ove  too  will  sink  and  die. 
ISiil  Love    is   suhtle,    and   doth    ])r(iof 

derive 
From  her  own  life  ilia'    Hope  is  vet 

alive: 
And  heiidim;  o'er  with  sonl-tninsfns- 

int;  evf.s. 
And  the  soft  nuirnmrs  of  the  mo!h<r 

dove. 
VVoos    haek    the   lleetin^  sjiirit   and 

half-su])plieH;  — 
Thus   Love   repays    to    Ilo]>e    what 

Hope  first  {^ave  to  Love. 
Yet  liaplv  there  will   come  a  weary 

day 
When  overtasked  at  length 
JJoth    Love    and    llojie    heui-ath    the 

load  uive  way. 
'I'lien  with  a  statue's  sndle.  a  statue's 

stnni^th. 
Sl.imh    the    mute    sister,     l'alien<-e, 

nothim;  loth. 
And  both  su|>porlinf{,  does  the  work 

of  hoth. 


rorrii  ,i\/i  mih. 

Veusk,  a  hree/.e.  mi<l  lilossoms  stmy- 

ini,'. 
Where     hope     clunj,'   fading,    like   a 

hee  — 
IJoih  were  mine!  Life  went a-iuaying 
With  .Nature,  Hope,  and  I'oesy, 
\\  hen  1  was  young! 
When    1    was   young '■;'  —  Ah,    woful 

when! 
Ah!  for  the  change  'twixt  .Now  and 

Tlien! 
This  lireathing  bouse  not  built  with 

hands. 
This    body    that    does    me   grievous 

wrong. 
O'er  aery  elitls  and  glittering  sands, 
How  ligiitly  then  it  llashed  along:  — 
Like  those  trim  skilTs,  unknown  of 

yore. 
On  winding  lakes  an<l  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
Ihat  fear  no  s)>ite  of  wind  or  tide! 
Nought  eared  this  body  for  win<l  or 

weather 
When  youth  and  1  livid  iu't  together. 

Flowers  are   lovely;   Love  is  llower- 

like; 
Kriendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 
o!  the  jovs,  that  came  down  shower 

like, 
of  Friendship.  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Kre  1  was  old. 
Kre  I  was  old  '.'     Ah.  woful  ere. 
Which  tells  me.    Youth's  no  lonui-r 

here! 
<)    Youth!    for   years   .s«)    many   and 

sweet. 
"I'is    known,   that    thou  and    I    were 

one. 

I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit  — 
It  cannot  lie.  thai  thou  art  gone! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  y<-t  tolled:  — 
.\nd  thou  \Nert  aye  a  masker  bold! 
Wliaf  strange  disguise  hast  now  put 

on. 
To  make  believe,  that  llioii  art  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  .silvery  slips. 
This  droni.inu  gill.  Ibis  altered  size: 
Hut  sprint;tid<'  l)lovsoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  teal-  lake  sun.shine  from  thinr 

eyuji! 


COLERIDGE. 


n\ 


Life    is    bill    thouj^ht:    so    think    I 

will 
'I'hat  Youth  and   I  are  lioiise-mates 

still. 

I)ew-dro])S  are  the  cenis  of  morning 
Liul  the  tears  of  n\ouruful  eve! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warninsj; 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old : 
Ihat  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
U  ith  oft  ami  tedious  taking-leave, 
I^ike  some  [)oor  nigh-related  guest. 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist. 
Yet    hath    outstayed    his    welcome 

while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


COMPLAINT  AND   liEPJiOOF. 

IIow  seldom,  friend!  a  good   great 

man  inherits 
Honor  oi'  wealth,  with  all  his  worth 

and  pains  I 
it  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land 

of  spirits, 
.f  any  man  obtain  that  which  he 

merits, 
)v  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  dear  friend!  renounce 
this  canting  strain! 

AVhat  wouldsl  thou  have  a  good 
great  man  obtain  ? 

Place,  titles,  salary  —  a  gilded  chain  — 
1 1-  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword 
hath  slain  ?  — 

v.reatness  and  goodness  are  not 
means,  but  ends ! 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always 
friends. 

The  good  great  njan  ? — three  treas- 
ures, lov<'  and  light. 

And  calm  thou^xhts,  regular  as  in- 
fant's breath :  — 

\nil  three  firm  frieiul^,  more  sun' 
thai!  (lay  ;nid  night  — 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  ang.  1 
Death. 


LOVE. 


Am.   thoughts,  all   pas.sions,  all  de- 
lights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame. 
All  are  but  ministers  of  LovC) 
And  feed  his  sacred  llame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
AVhen  midway  on  the  mount  1  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The    moonshine,   stealing    o'er    the 

scene 
Had  blended  witli  the  lights  of  eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  (ienevieve! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listened  io  my  lay. 
Amid  the  lingeririg  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope!  my  joy'  my  Genevieve! 
>>he  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
1  sang  an  old  and  moving  story  — 
An  old  rude  song,  thai  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  Hitting  blush, 
With  dow  ncast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  i  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  lliat  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 
And  that  f«.:-  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The   lady  of  the   laud. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined:  ami  ah! 
The  deep,  the  low.  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  1  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With    downcast    eyes,    and    modest 

grace ; 
Vnd  she  foi-gave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face! 


142 


COLLIER. 


But  when  I  tolil  tho  cruel  scorn 
That    crazed    (liat     bold    and    lovely 

knight, 
And   that  he  crossed  the  niountain- 
Moods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night: 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome 

shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 

An  ani,'el  beautiful  and  bright; 
Anil  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight! 

And  that  unknowing  what  ho  did. 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  iiand, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than 
death 
The  lady  of  the  land ;  — 

And  how  slie  wept,  and  clasped   his 

knees; 
And  how  she  tended  liini  in  vain  — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave; 
And  how  his  matlness  went  away, 
\\'lieii  on  the  yellow  forcst-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay;  — 

Ilisdying  words  —  but  when  I  reached 

That  ttuderest  strain  of  all  tin'  ditty 

My  faltering  voice  and  jiausiny  harp 

Distiu-bed  her  soul  with  pity! 


All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
liatl  tbrilled  my  guilele>s  (u-nevieve^ 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale. 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve; 

Anil    hopes,    and    fears   that    kindle 

hope, 
An  undistiuguisbable  throng. 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdue-!. 
Subilued  and  cherished  I  )ng! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  d'-ii  ,'lit, 
yiie    blushed    with   love   and   virgin 

shame; 
And  like  the  uuninur  of  a  dream, 
I  hearil  her  bn'athe  my  name. 

Her    bosom     heaved  —  she     steppe 

aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  lo<)lcshe  slept  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
tjhe  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  w  ith  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  l)ack   her  liiad,  looked 
up, 
And  gazed  ujion  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  i)arlly  "twas  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  ratber  feel  than  .see. 
The  swclliui^  of  her  heart. 

I    calmeil    her   fiars,    and    she    was 

calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  i»ride; 
And  so  1  won  my  (Jenevieve, 

My  bright  uud  bcuuteuua  bride. 


Thomas  Stephens  Collier. 


TiiK     stonn-wlnd      moans     through    Along     the     wastes     ut     a     barren 


bnmches  bare; 
The  snow  (lies  wildly  through  the  air; 
'I'be  mad  waves  roar,  as  tierce  and  i 

bJKb  hky.  I 

They  Iusb  their  oresUi  agaiuat  the  I 


laud; 
And  rusliiu;,' on,  with  sheets  Hung 

free. 

A  ship  sails  down   Irnni  tlie;iortb« 
uru  bca. 


COLLIER. 


With    lips  pressed    hard    the   h(>luis- 

niiiii  stands, 
Grasping   the  spokes   with   freezing 
hands, 
While' white  the  reef  lies  in  his  path. 
Swept  by  an  ocean  full  of  wrath. 

The  snrf-roar  in  the  blast  is  lost. 
The  foam-flakes  by  the  wild  wind  tost 
Higii  up  in  air,  no  warning  show, 
Hid  by  the  driving  mass  of  snow. 

With  sudden  bound  and  sullen  grate, 
The  brave  ship  nishes  to  her  fate. 

And  splintered  deck  and  broken 
mast 

Make  homage  to  the  roaring  blast. 

Amid  the  waves,  float  riven  plank, 
And  rope  and  sail  with  moisture  dank ; 
And     faces    gleaming    stern    and 

white 
Shine    dimly    in    the    storm-filled 
niglit. 

By  some  bright  river  far  away. 
Fond   liearts    are    wondering   wlierc 
they  stay 
Who  sleep  along  the  wave-washed 

shore 
And  stormy  reefs  of  Labrador. 


AN  OCTOBER  PICTURE. 

The  purjile  grapes  hang  ready  for  the 
kiss 
Of  red  lips  sweeter  than  their  wine ; 
And  'mid   tjic  turning  leaves   they 
soon  will  miss, 
The  crimson  apples  shine. 
Lazily  through  the  soft  and  sunlit  air 
The  great  hawks  fly,  and  give  no 
heed 
To  the  sweet  songsters,  that  toward 
the  fair. 
Far  lands  of  summer  speed. 

Vlong  the  hills  wild  asters  bend  to 
greet 
The  roadhiilf's  wealth  of  golden-rod  ; 
And   by   tlic    fences   the    bright    su- 
machs meet 
The  mornini:  light  of  God. 


Slowly   the   sliadows   of    the   clouds 
drift  o'er 
The  hillsides,  clad  in  opal  haze, 
Where  gorgeous  butterflies  seek  the 
rich  store 
Of  flower-sprent  summer  days. 

All  clad  in  dusted  gold,  the  tall  elms 
stand 
Just  in  the  edges  of  the  wood; 
And  near,  the  chestnut  sentinels  the 
land. 
And  shows  its  russet  hood. 

The  maple  flaunts  its  scarlet  banners 
where 
The  marsh  lies  clad  in  shining  mist; 
The   mountain   oak    shows,    in   the 
clear,  bright  air. 
Its  crown  of  ametliyst. 

Where,  like  a  silver  line,  the  spark- 
ling stream 
Flows     murmuring     through    the 
meadows  brown. 
Amid  the   ladiance,  seeming  a  sad 
dream, 
A  sailless  boat  floats  down. 


COMPLETE. 

Iakv.  morning  blooms  that  meet  the 

sun 
With  all  the  fragrant  freshness  won 
FioiM  night's  rejiose,  and  kiss  of  dew 
Which   the  bright   radiance  glistens 

through. 
Such  is  the  sweetness  of  thy  lips, 
Where  love  its  sacred  tribute  sips: 
>Such  is  the  glory  of  (nine  eyes, 
Kich  Avith  the  soul's  unsaid  replies. 

The  snow  that  crowns  the  mountain 
height,  I  white; 

Through  countless  years  of  gleaming 
The  creamy  blooms  of  orchanl  trees, 
Full  of  the  melody  of  l>ees; 
I'iic  <ool,  fi-csli  swt'ctness  of  tlie  sea; 
All  have  a  cliinM  i)oss('ssed  by  thee: 
■'.Ml  each  of  lln'se  lias  one  alone, 
'vVliilst  thou  canst  call  Ihcm  all  thinfl 
own. 


vuLLiya. 


Mortimer   Collin?^. 


/,V    1 7 Air    OF   DKATII. 

No;  I  sliiill   i>u>s   into   till'   Moniiiii,' 

Land 
As  now  from  slorp  into  (he  life  of 

iiioni; 
Livi'thf  iifw  life  of  llie  new  world, 

unshorn 
•'   tlic   swifl    hraiu,   the  executnit; 

hand; 
See   I  lie   dense  darkness  suddenly 

wiUidrawn, 
As  whin  Orion's  sif^litless eyes  dis- 

ceriUMJ  the  dawn. 


I   shall    hehold    it;   I   shall    see    th«' 

UlttT 

(Jlory    of    sunrise   heretofore   lui- 
seen. 

Freshening  the  woodland  ways  wit  li 
i)rii,'ht«'r  <ireen. 
And  callini:  into  life  all  wings  that 
tlutter. 

All  throats  of  iniisie  and  all  eyes  of 
li-lii. 

Ami  driving'  o'er  the  verge  the  in- 
tolerable night. 


()    \irgin    world  I     O  niaiTellous  fai 

days! 
No  more  with  dreams  of  grief  doth 

lose  grow  bitter,  |glittei 

Nor  troiiide  dim  the  histri'  wont  to 

In  hapi)y  eyes.     Deeay  alone  deeays: 

A  moment  —  <leath*s  dull  sleep  is 

o'er:  and  we 
Drink  the   immortal   morning  air 

Earine. 


LAST  yEUSKS. 

I  iiAVK  been  sitting  alone 

All  day  while  the  clouds  went  oy, 

While  moved  the  strength  of  the 
seas, 
While  a  wind  with  a  will  of  his  own, 

A  poet  out  of  the  sky, 

JSniote  the  green  harp  of  the  trees. 

.\lone.  yet  not  alone. 

For  I  fell,  as  the  gay  wind  whirlni. 

As  till-  cl.nidy  sky  -..'ri'w  clear. 
The  touch  of  our  Father  lialf-known 

AVlKMJwt'llsal  the  heart  of  theworhl 

Vet  who  is  always  here. 


William   Collins. 


ODE   TO  SIMl'LK  I  I'Y. 

O  Tinn'.  by  Nature  taught 
To  breatlu-  her  tieuuiiie  thought, 
In  iiMiMbi-rs  warmly  pure,  and  sweet- 
ly strong; 
Who  lir>t.  on  miiuMtains  wild. 
In  F.mcy,  lovelii-st  child, 
.hy  babe.  <»r  Pleasttre'.s,  mirscd  the 
powers  of  song! 

Thou,  who,  with  hennit  heart, 
Di.sdaiu'sl  (he  wealth  of  art. 
Alid  g.'iud's,  and  oageunt  weeds,  and 
(railiii::  pall ; 


Hut  cuni'st  a  tlecenl  maid. 
In  .\IIii'  robe  arrayed. 
O  chaste.  unl)t)asltul   nMni>li.  to  Ihec 
le.ili: 


O  slsti-r  meek  of  Truth, 
To  my  admiring  youth. 
Thy  sober  aid  ami  native  charms  In 
fuse! 

The  llnueis  that  s\M-etcs(  breathe. 
'i"hoUL;li  Iteaiily  iidle«l  the  wreath. 
.Still  ask  ihy  hand  to  r.ingc  tlieii  ..i 
ilereil  hues. 


COLLINS. 


145 


Though  taste,  tliough  genius,  bless, 
To  some  divine  excess. 
Faints  the  cold  work  till  thou  inspire 
the  whole: 
Wha,t  each,  what  all  supply. 
May  court,  may  charm,  our  eye; 
Thou,    only    thou,   canst    raise    the 
meeting  soul ! 

Of  these  let  others  ask, 

To  aid  some  mighty  task, 
I  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale ; 

AViiere  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and  shepherds  round. 
And  all   thy  sons,  O  Nature,   learn 
my  tale. 


ODE   TO   THE  BRAVE. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to 

rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed ! 
When  Spring,  with  de\\T  fingers  cold, 
Keturns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
J{y  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless   the  turf  that  wraps  their 

clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 


ON   TRUE    AXn   FALSE    TASTE    /A' 
MUSIC. 

I>:.scAiiD  soft  nonsense  in  a  slavish 
Longue, 

The  strain  insipid,  and' the  thought 
imknown; 

From  truth  and  nature  form  the  un- 
erring test; 

Be  '.\!iat  is  manly,  chaste,  and  good 
the  best ! 

'Tii-i  not  to  ape  the  songsters  of  the 
groves. 

Through  all  the  ijuivers  of  their  wan- 
ton loves ; 


'Tis  not  the  enfeebled  thrill,  or  war- 
bled shake, 
The  heart  can  strengthen,  or  the  soul 

awake ! 
But  where    the   force   of    energy   is 

found. 
When  the  sense  rises  on  the  wings  of 

sound ; 
When   reason,   with   the   charms   of 

music  twined, 
Through  the  enraptured  ear  informs 

the  mind; 
Bids  generous  love  or  soft  compassion 

glow. 
And  forms  a  tuneful  Paradise  below ! 


T/fE   PASSIONS. 
AN   ODE    FOU   MUSIC. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,    was 

young, 
Wliile  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell. 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting: 
By  turns  tliey  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined: 
Till    once,    'tis  said,   when  all    were 

fired. 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
'I'hey   snatched    her  instruments  of 

soimd : 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (for  Madness  nded  the  hour) 
Would    prove    his    own    expressive 

power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid. 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 
E'en   at    the    sound    himself    had 
maiie. 

Next  .Anger  rushed  ;  his  eyes  on  fire. 

In    lightnings     owned    his    secret 

stings; 

In  ojie  rn<ie  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

.\nd  swi'ipi  Willi  hurried  hands  tho 

strings. 


146 


COLLISS. 


Witli  woftil  inpasurt's  wan  Drspair 
Ivow,    siillfu   sounds   his  grii'f  be- 
jT'iilfil; 
A  soli'Min,  Strang*',  and  mingled  air; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas 
wild! 

But  thon.O  Hope,  with  eye^  so  fair. 
Wliiii  was  tliy  delighted  measure ":' 
Still  ii  wliisiitTfd  i)romised  pleasure, 
And   hade  the  lovely  scenes  at  dis- 
tance hail! 
SlIII  would  her  touch  the  strain  pro- 
long; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the 
vale. 
She  call,  il  on  Kcho  still,  through  all 
tlic  snug; 
And  wiiere  her  sweetest  theme  she 

chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard 
al  every  close. 
And     Hope    enchanted    smiled,    and 

waved  her  golden  hair. 
Anil  longer  had  slie  sung;  —  but  with 
a  frown. 
Ileveu'^e  impalienl  rose; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  swcjrd,  in 
thundiM*.  down; 
Ami  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-ilenoinicing  tiuin]iet  took. 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
\Vere  ne'er  proi>hetic  sounds  s<j  full 
of  woe! 
And.  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  (loublinL:  drinn.  with  furious 
heat; 
And  lliou;;b  sonieiimes,  each  dreary 

JiaUse  Ix-lween, 
Deje.led  I'jlV.  at   his  side. 
Her  sold-  lllnjuing  voiee  aiipijed. 

Vet  still  be  kept  bis  wilij  unaltered 
mien. 
While    eaeb     strained    bail    of    siglil 
seemeil  luirstiim  from  iiis  lie.jd. 

Thy    nmnbers.    .lealou.sy,  to    nou^bl 

Were  (i\e  I: 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressfid  stale; 
(>f  fjilbriu:;  ibeiiies  the  veering  s<»ng 

was  mixed ; 
And   now   ji    eourti-d    I,ove,  now   rav 

ing  called  on  Hale. 


With  eye.i  ujiiaised,  ;is  one  inspired, 
I'ale  Melancholy  sate  retired; 
And,  from  her  wild  se(|U<'siered  seat. 
In   notes    by    distance    made    more 

sweet. 
Toured  through  the  mellow  horn  her 
pensive  soul: 
And,    dashing     soft     from    rocks 

around, 
liui)l)ling  rimnels  joined  the  so'md. 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  nin. 
glcd  measures  stole. 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with 
fond  delay. 
Hound  an  lioly  calm  <liiTusing, 
Love  of  reace.and  lonely  nuising, 
In  hollow  murunus  died  away. 

ButO!  how  altered  was  its  spright- 

lier  tone. 
When    (  heerfulness,     a    nymph    of 
healthiest  hue. 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung 
Her  buskins  geuuned  with  morning 
dew. 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and 
thicket  rinig. 
The    hunter's   <'all,   to    Faiui    and 
Dryad  known! 
The   oak-crowned  Sisters,  and  their 
chaste-eyed  (^ueen. 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  were  seen. 
Peeping    from    forth    their   alleys 
green : 
Brown  Kxercise  rejoiced  lo  bear; 
And  Sport  leapt  up.  and  seizeil  bin 
1 ■ben  spear. 

I-ast  eaine  .Joy's  ecstatii-  trial: 
He.  with  viny  I'rown  advancim;. 
First  to  the  lively   pipe    his    baud 
addrest ; 
Htit  soon  he  saw  the  br  k  awakening 
viol. 
Whose  sweet  entraii.'ing  voice  lie 
loved  Ibe  best  ; 
They  would  bavi'  thought  who  heard 
the  strain 
'I'liey    saw.    in  Tempe's    vale,    lier 

native  maids. 
.\midsl  the  festal  soinnlinu  shades, 
T<»  some  imwearied  minslnl  ibuwing, 
While,  Hs  bis  (lying  fingers  kissed  th« 
strings. 


COLLINS. 


147 


Love  framed  witli  Mirtli  a  gay  fan- 

tast.il'  round; 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,   her 

zone  unbound; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air 

re]>ay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy 

wings. 

O  Music!  sphere-descended  maid. 
Friend  (jf  Pleasure,  Wisdoni's  aid! 
Why,  goddess!  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay"sl  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You     learned     an     all-commanding 

l)ower, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymidi  endeared. 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime! 
Tliy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age. 
Fill  tliy  recording  sister's  page  — 
■  Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  iiuniblest  reed  could   more  pre- 
vail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard 

age ; 
pren  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound  — 
C)  bid  oui'  vain  endeavors  cease; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece: 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate! 


ODE    TO   EJEXfXG. 

If  aught   of  oaten   sto])   or  y)astoral 

song. 
May  hopi'.  chaste  Eve,  to  lioothe  thy 
modest  car. 
Like  thy  own  brawling  springs. 
Thy  springs  and  dying  gales; 

<.)   nym))li    reserved,   while    now   the 

biight-haireil  sun 
Sits  in  you  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 
With  bieile  ethei'cal  wove 
O'ejhaiii;  his  waw  bed: 


Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where   the 

weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on 
leathern  wing; 
Or  where  the  beet le  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the   twilight 

path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless 
hum : 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy 

darkening  vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness 
suit; 
As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return! 

For  when   thy  folding-star,    arising 
shows 

His  paly  circlet, — at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph   who  wreathes 

her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and, 
lovelier  still. 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then    let    me   rove  some   wild   and 

heathy  scene; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  'midst  its  dreary 
dells. 
Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 
IJy  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or.  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driv- 
ing rain 
I'reveni  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the 
hut." 
'I'hat,  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And  handet><  brown,  and  dim-discov- 
ered spires; 
And    hears    their    simple   bell,   and 
marks  o'<'r  all 
Thy  dewy  lingers  draw 
'Jhe  u'ladiuil  dusky  veil 


148 


COLLINS. 


Wliilo  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers 

as  oft  hi'  wont, 
Ami    batln'    thy    breathing    tresses, 
nifcki'st  Kve! 
Whilr  SniiiiiuT  loves  to  sport 
HtMh-alh  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow   Auluuin    tills  thy  lap 

with  leaves; 
I  )r  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troub- 
lous air, 
Atfiights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 
>>hall    Fancy.     Friendship,    Science, 
sniiliut;  Peace, 
Thy  gfullfsi  inlluenee  own, 
And  love  thv  favorite  name! 


ODE  Oy  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMSON. 

[Tlie  scene  is  supposed  to  lie   on    tlie 
Tlianies,  near  Kichniunii.] 

In  yondiT  grave  a  Druid  lies. 

Wlieii-  slowly   winds  the   stealing 
wave; 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous 
rise 
Tod<-c|<  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yiiu  deep  l»ed  of  wliisperiug  reeds 

Ills  ;iiiy  harp  ^liail  now  lie  laid, 
That    he.    whose    heart     in    sorrow 
Ijleeds, 
Mav  lover  through  life  the  soothing 
■  shade. 

I'hen  maids  and   voiiihs  slial!  linger 

here. 

.    And  while    its   sounds  at  dislanee 

swell. 
Shall  sadly  seem  in  IMly's  ear 

To    JK-ar   the    woodland     pilgrim's 

knell. 

IJemeniltranee    oft     shall    liauni     the 

shore 

When  Thames  in  siunmer  wreaths 
is  drest. 


And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest! 

And  oft.  as  Kase  and  Health  retire 

To  bree/y  lawn,  or  forest  deep. 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  \\hiteniug 
spire 
And    'mid    the    vaiie<l    i.in.lsoape 
weep. 

Ihit  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthly 
Led. 
Ah!  wliat  will  every  dirge  avail; 
Or  tiar.-.  uliieh  l.ovi-  and  i'ity  shed, 
That    mouiii    lieneaili    the  gliding 
sail  ■.' 

Yet  lives  then;  one  whose  heedless 

eye 

Shall   scorn  thy  i)ale  shrine  glim 

mernig  near ".' 

With  him,  sweet  hard,  may  Fancy  die. 

And  .l(ty  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen 
tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  at- 
teiKJ, 
N'ow  waft    me  from  the  green  hill's 
side. 
\\'h(»e  ciiKl  turf  hides  the  buried 
frirnti  I 

.\nd  see,  the  fairy  valleys  lade; 

I  Mm   night  has  veiled  the  solemn 
view! 
Vet  once  agjiin.  dear  parted  shade, 

.Meeli  Nature's  child,  attain  adieu! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy    lite,   sh.all    mourn    thy   early 
doom : 
Their  hiniL  and  shepherd-girls  shall 
dress. 
With  simple  liaud>,  thy  rural  loud). 


Long,    long,  ihv  stone  .ind    |>ointcd 

clay 

Shall  melt  the  musing  Hriton'sews: 

"(>  vales  :in<l  wild  woods  I"  shall  h«) 

say, 

"  In  yonder gravi'  )our  l>ruid  Ileal" 


COOK. 


119 


Eliza  Cook. 


SONG   OF  THE  IIEMPSERI). 

A.Y,  scatter  me  well,  'tis  a  moist  spring 
day; 
Wide  and  far  be  tlic  hempseed  sown : 
And  bravely  I'll  stand  on  tlie  autumn 
land, 
vV'hen  tlie  rains  have  dropped  and 
the  winds  have  blown 
Man  shall  carefully  gather  nie  up; 
iiis  hand  shall  rule  and  my  form 
shall  change; 
Xot  as  a  mate  for  the  purple  of  state, 
Nor  into  aught  that  is  "rich  and 
strange. ' ' 
I)Ut  1  will  come  forth  all  woven  and 
spun, 
With  my  fine  threads  curled  in  ser- 
pent length ; 
And  the  fire-wrought  chain  and  the 
lion's  thick  mane 
Shall  be  rivalled  by  me  in  miglity 
strength. 
I  have  many  a  place  in  the  busy  world, 
Of  triumph  and  fear,  of  soitow  and 
joy; 
I  carry  the  freeman's  flag  unfurled; 
I  am  linked  to  childhood's  darling 
toy. 
Then  scatter  me  wide,  and  hackle  me 

well ; 
l"cr  a  varied  tale  can  the  hempseed 
tell. 

Uravely  I  swing  in  the  anchor-ring, 
Whirc  tJK'  foot  of  the  proud  man 
coineth  not; 
\'here  the  dolphin  leaps  and  the  sea- 
weed creeps 
(^'er  the  rifted  sand  and  the  coral 

grot. 
;.i\vn.  down  below  I  merrily  go 
When  the  huge  ship  takes  h.er  rock- 
ing rest: 
I  lie  waters  may  chafe,  but  she  dwell- 
eth  as  safe 
As  tlie  young  bird  in  its  woodland 
nest. 
I  wreathe  the  spars  of  that  same  fair 
ship,  |ai)<)ul : 

Where  the  gallant  sea-hearts  cling 


Springing  aloft  with  a  song  on  the  lip, 
Putting  their  faith  in  the  cordage 

stout, 
I  am  true  when  the  blast  sways  the 

giant  mast. 
Straining  and  stretched  in  a  nor'- 

west  gale, 
I  abide  with  the  bark,  in  the  day  and 

the  dark. 
Lashing  the  hammock  and  reefing 

the  sail. 
Oh  !  the  billows  and   I  right  fairly 

cope. 
And  the  wild  tide  is  stemmed  by  the 

cable  rope. 

The  sunshine  falls  on  a  new-made 
grave, — 
The  funeral  train  is  long  and  sad; 
The  poor  man  has  come  to  the  hap- 
piest hom<' 
And  easiest  pillow  he  ever  had. 
I  shall  be  there  to  lower  him  down 

Gently  into  his  narrow  bed: 
I  shall  be  there,  the  work  to  share, 
To  guard  his  feet,  and  cradle  his 
head. 

Oh!  the  hempseed  cometh  in  doleful 

shape. 
With  the  mourner's  cloak  and  sable 

crape. 

Harvest  shall  spn'ad  with  its  glitter- 
ing wheal. 
The  barn  shall  b<'  opened,  the  stack 
shall  bi-  piled: 
Ye  shall  see  the  rijie  grain   shining 
out  from  the  wain. 
And  the  berry-slaineil  arms  of  tiK 
gleancr-clald. 
Heap   on,  heap  on,  till   the  wagon 
ribs  creak. 
Let  the  sheaves  go  lowering  to  tl'« 
sky, 
Up   with   the   shock    till    the    broad 
wheels  rock. 
Fear  not  to  carry  the  rich  freiuht 
liigii; 
For  I  will  infold  tlie  loitering  gold, 
1  will  fetter  the  roiling  load; 


150 


COOK. 


Vol  an  ear  shall  escape  my  biiuliiiLj 
hold. 
( >ii   till-   t'urrowi'ii    liclii   or  joltiiii; 
road. 

Dhl  ihe  hi'iun-si'ed  hath  a  fair  place 
to  till, 

'A'ilh  the  harvest  band  on  the  corn- 
crowned  hill. 


A  FT  EH  A   MOTHKIVS   DEATH. 

V\\h.\  lold  nn'  in  my  earlier  years, 
Life  was  a  dark  and  tanj^led  web; 

\  Liloomy  sea  of  bitter  tears, 
NVlure  Sorrow's  inlliix  had  no  ebb. 

But  sucl:  was  vainly  lan^ht  and  said. 

My  laiif,'h  rangont  with  joyous  tone; 
The  woof  possessed  one  brilliant 
thread 

Of  rainbow  colors,  all  my  own. 

I  boasted  —  till  a  mother's  grave 
Was  heai)ed  and  sodded  —  then  1 
found 

The  sunshine  stricken  from  the  wave. 
And  all  thegolden  thread  imwound. 

I'reach  on  who  will  —  say  "Life  is 
sad." 
I'll  not  refute  as  once  I  did; 
You'll  litid  the  eye   that   beamed   so 
Kl.id. 
\\  ill  hide  a  tear  beneath  its  lid, 

F'reach  on  of  woe;  the  llmo  hath  been 
I'd  j)raisp  the  world  with  shadeless 
brow: 

I'he  dream  is  broken  —  I  h.ive  seen 
A  mother  die: — I'm  sib-nt  now. 


lA.\'(IIXO  Til  ASni!.tS(!IS<l  KKAi:. 

N'ak  star  was  ^lintin  out  aboon. 
The   rluds    rtcre   dark    and    hid    liie 

MifXHi ; 
Tlie  wbiiiliiii;  ijale  was  in  my  teeth, 
Vnd  round   me  was   the   ileep  snaw 

wreath; 


Hut  on  I  went  the  dreary  mile. 
.Vnd  sung  right  cantie  a'  the  while 
1  gae  my  plaid  a  closer  faulil; 
.My  hand  was  warm,  luy  heart  was 

bauld, 
1  didna  heed  the  storm  and  cauld. 

While  ganging  tv  my  Katie. 

Ihit  when  1  trod  the  same  way  back. 
It  seemed  a  sad  and  waefu'  track; 
The  brae  and  glen  were  lone  and  lang; 
1  didna  sing  my  eanlie  sang; 
1  felt  how  sliarp  the  sleet  iliil  fa' 
.Vnd  couldna  face  the  wind  at  a'. 
Oh,  sic  a  change  I  how  could  it  be  ? 
1  ken  fu'  well,  and  sae  may  ye  — 
The  simshine  had  been  gloom  to  me 
While  ganging./r(j(  my  Katie. 


.>/>'   01J>  ST II AM'  HAT. 

Fakkwki.i.,  old  friend,  —  we  part  at 

last ; 
Fruits,  tlowers,  and  summer,  all  are 

past. 
.Vnd  when  the  beech-leaves  bid  adieu, 
.My  old  straw  hat  nnist  vanish  too. 
We've  been  together  many  an  Ifour, 
In  grassy  dell  anil  garden  bower; 
.Vnd  i>lait  and  riband,  scorched  and 

torn. 
I'roelaim   bow   will   thou    hast    been 

woiii. 
We've  had  a  time,  gay,  bright,  and 

long: 
So  let  me  sing  a  grateful  song,  — 
.Vnd  if  one  iiay-leaf  falls  to  me, 
I'll  stick  il  lirni  and  fast  in  thee. 

My  old  straw  hat. 

Thy  llaiii>ing  shade  and  llying  strings 
.Vre     worth     a    thousand     closc-tietl 

things. 
I  love  tbv  easy-fitting  crown. 
Thrust'    lightly    i»aek,    or    slouching 

down. 
I  cannot  brook  a  mu(lle<l  ear. 
When     lark    and    l>lackl)ird    whistle 

near; 
Ami  dearly  like  to  meet  and  set^k 
The     fresji    wind     with     unguardcMj 

cheek. 


VOOKE. 


151 


Tossed    in   a   tree,    thou 'It   bear   no 

harm: 
F'hniL;  on  the  moss,  thou  "It  lose  no 

chaiin; 
Like  many  a  real  friend  on  earth, 
Rough  ui  .are  only  proves  thy  worth. 
My  old  straw  hat. 

Farewell,  o'.f.  friend,  thy  work  is  done ; 
The  misty  clonds  shut  out  the  sun; 
Tho  grapes  are  plucked,  the  hops  are 

'  off. 
The  woods  are  stark,  and  1  must  doff 
My    old    straw    hat  —  but    ''  bide   a 

wee," 
Fair  skies  we've  seen,  yet  we  may  see 
Skies  full  as  fair  as  those  of  yore, 
And   then  we'll  wander  forth  once 

more. 
Farewell,  till  droopin'.^  bluebells  blow. 
And  violets  stud  tliewaiMii  hoilgerow, 
Farewell,  till  daisies  deck  the  plain  — 
Farewell,  till  spriugdays  come  again — 
My  old  straw  hat. 


SONG   OF   THE  UGLY  MAIDEN- 

On  I  the  worlil  gives  little  of  love  or 
light. 

Though  iiy  spirit  pants  for  much; 
For  1  have  no  beauty  for  the  sight, 

No  r'.  lies  for  the  touch. 
I  hear  men  sing  o'er  th-e  tlowing  cup 

Of  woman  s  magic  si)ell; 
\\\k\  vows  of  zeal  they  olTer  up, 

.\nd  t'io(|uent  talcs  they  tell, 
riiey  bravely  swear  to  guard  the  fair 

With  strong  protecting  arms; 


r.ut  will  they  worship  woman's  worth 

I'nblcnt  with  woman's  charms? 
No!  ah,  no!  'tis  little  they  priz-* 
"rook-backed  forms  and  rayless  eyes. 

Oh!  'tis  a  saddening  thing  to  be 

A  poor  and  ugly  one; 
In  the  sand  Time  puts  in  his  glass 
for  me, 

Few  golden  atoms  run. 
For  my  drawn  lids  bear  no  shadowing 
fringe; 

My  locks  are  thin  and  dry; 
My  teeth  wear  not  the<rich  pearl  tinge. 

Nor  my  lips  the  henna  ilye. 
I  know  full  well  I  have  nought   of 
grace 

That  maketh  woman  ''divine;" 
I'he  wooer's  praise  and  doting  gaze 

Have  never  yet  been  mine. 
Where'er  I  go  all  eyes  will  shun 
The  loveless  mien  of  the  ugly  one. 

Would  that  I  had  passed  away 

Ere  I  knew  that  1  was  born ; 
For  I  stand  in  the  blessed  light  of  day 

Like  a  weed  among  the  corn,  — 
The  black  rock  in  the  wide  blue  sea,  — 

The  snaki'  in  the  jungle  green: 
Oh!  who  will  stay  in  the  fearful  way 

Where  such  ugly  things  are  seen? 
Yet  mine  is  the  fate  of  lonelier  state 

Than  that  of  the  snake  or  rock; 
For  those  who  behold  me  in  their 
path 

Not  only  shun,  but  mock. 
O  Ugliness!  thy  desolate  pain 
Had  served  to  set  the  stamp  on  Cain' 


Philip  Pendleton   Cooke. 


FLORENCE    VANE. 


I  LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Fl  .ence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

ILath  come  again; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision. 

My  heart's  dear  pain  — 
My  hopes,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 


The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told  — 
That  spot  —  the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  i)lain  — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

P'loreneo  Vane. 


152 


COUKE. 


Thou  wast  lovolicr  than  the  roses 

And  it  hoots  not  to  remember 

III  tlioir  prime; 

Thy  disdain. 

Thy  voico  oxcllcd  tlic  closes 

To  quitkiii  love's  pale  ember, 

Of  sweetest  rhyme; 

Florence  Vane. 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 

The  lilies  of  Ihe  valley 

Would  I  had  loved  thee  uever, 

l>y  youii;:  u'raves  weep; 

Florence  Vane. 

The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  m  lidt'iis  sleep. 

But.  fairest,  coldest  wonder! 

May  their  bloom,  in  In-auty  vying, 

Thy  ;,'lurious  clay 

Never  wane 

Lieth  the  ixreeii  sod  under  — 

Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Alas,  the  day  I 

Florence  Vane  I 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. 


r/ZA"  i((>.\(j<i.As r. 
A  THoif.sAM*  years  shall  come  ami 

A  thousand  years  of  niiihl  and  day: 
And  man.  throu<{h  all  their  chanKint; 
show. 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  i)lay. 

Knleil  by  some  fond  ideal's  |)ower, 

'liciited  by  passion  or  des])air. 
Still   shall    be  waste  life's   Iremblinp 
hour. 
In     woi-ship     vaiu,     and      useless 
pray.  T. 

Ah!    where   are    they    who    rose    in 
mi;,'ht. 
Who    fired    tlie    temjde    and     the 
shrine, 
Vnd  hurled,  through  earth's  chaotic 
night, 
The   helpli^s  gods  it  deemeil   di- 
vine ';• 

./Case,  longing  soul,  thy  viiin  desiirl 
What  idol,  in  il^  sl.iiiiles^  priun', 

J>it  falls,  initoiielifd  of  u\e  or  tire, 
llcfore  the  steady  eyes  of  Time  'f 

lie  looks,  and  lo!  our  altars  fall. 

'lb.;  shrine  nv.-als  its  gil.l.il  e|a\. 
With    .leu-Ill    liiiiidH    we    spread    tin- 
pall. 

And  .-••Id,  with  wis.|om,  glide  away. 


O,   where  were   couraj;:e,  faith,  ami 
truth. 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 
In  golilen  clouds  of  love  and  youth. 
\or  ku.  \v  tliat   both   his  steps  be- 
tray'.' 

C'lini'.  Timi'.  while   here  we  sit  and 
wail, 
lie  faithtiil,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust! 
No  dealli  .an  furl  her  desolate 

The  •'.>id   liiat    knows   its  god  w.is 
dust. 


THAI  1. 1  Ml    AIUU'TVS. 

I).vm,i.s«js  of  the  fore.st! 
IWossomiug.  alone, 
Wlii-n  F.arth's  grief  is  sorest 
P'or  h<r  jewels  goiu>  — 
Krc  Ihe  last    snow-drift   melts,   yom 
lender  buds  have  blown. 

Tinged  with  c.dor  faintly, 
Like  lh<>  morning  sky, 
( >r,  more  pal<-  and  saintly, 
WrapjM-d  in  leaves  ye  lie  — 
Kven  as  ihildren  sleep  in  faith's  slm* 
plieity. 

There  I  hi"  wild  wood-robin, 
IIyuin->  youi  .stililude: 


COOLBRITH. 


158 


And  t)io  rain  comes  sobbing 
Through  the  budding  wood, 
While  the  low  south  wind  sighs,  but 
dare  not  be  more  rude. 

Were  your  pure  lips  fashioned 
Out  of  air  and  dew  — 
Starlights  uninipassioned. 
Dawn's  most  tender  hue, 
A.nd  scented  by  the  woods  that  gath- 
ered sweets  for  you  ? 

Fain^st  and  most  lonely, 
From  the  world  apart; 
Made  fpr  beauty  only, 
A''eik'd  from  Nature's  heart 
With    such    unconscious    grace    ws 
makes  the  dream  of  Art! 

Were  not  moi'tal  sorrow 
An  innnortal  shade, 
Th<>n  would  1  to-morrow 
yufh  a  llower  he  made, 
And  li^"^  in  the  dear  woods  where  my 
lost  childhood  played. 


THEN. 


I  <;iVK  tliee  treasuies  hour  by  hour. 
That  old-time  princes  asked  in  vain, 
And  pined  for.  in  their  useless  pow>T. 
Or  died  of  passion's  eager  pain. 


I  give  thee  love  as  God  gives  light, 
Aside  from  merit,  or  from  prayer. 
Rejoicing  in  its  own  delight. 
And  freer  than  the  lavish  air. 


I  give  thee  prayers,  like  jewels  strung 
On  golden  threads  of  hope  anil  fear; 
And   tenderer    thoughts    than    ever 

hung 
In  a  sad  angs^Vs  pitying  tear. 

As  earth  pours  freely  to  the  sea 
Her  thousand  streams  of  wealth  un- 
told, 
So  flows  my  silent  life  to  thee. 
Glad  that  its  very  sands  are  gold. 

What  care  I  for  thy  carelessness  ? 
I  give  from  depths  that  overflow, 
liegardless  that  their  power  to  bless 
Thy  spirit  cannot,  sound  or  know. 

Far  lingering  on  a  distant  ilawn 

My  triumph  shines,  more  sweet  than 
late ; 

When  from  these  mortal  mists  with- 
drawn. 

Thy  heart  shall  know  me  —  I  can 
wait. 


INA    D.    COOLBRITH. 


IN  BLOSSOM   TIME. 

It's  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 
To  be  out  in  the  sun  and  sing! 

To  sing  and  shout  in  tlie  fields  about, 
In  the  balm  and  the  blossomiug. 

Sing  loud,  O  bird  in  the  tree; 

O  hip!,  siti','  loud  in  the  sky, 
And  honey-bees,  blacken  the  clover 
bed  — 

There  are  none  of  you  glad  as  I. 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  tlie  wind. 
Laugh  low,  with  the  wind  at  play; 


And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 
Entices  my  soul  away ! 

For  oh,  but  the  world  is  fair,  is  fair  — 
And  oh,  but  the  world  is  sweet! 

I  will  out  in  the  gold  of  the  blossom- 
ing mould. 
And  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak 
I  will  fold  in  thi'  lily's  rim. 

That  the  lips  of  the  blossoms,  morr 
pure  and  meek. 
May  otfer  it  up  to  Him. 


154 


COTTON. 


Then  siug  in  the  hedgerow  green,  O 
til  rush, 
O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue: 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King 
may  lu-ar. 
And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you! 


THE   MOTHER'S  ORIEF. 

So  fair  the  sun  rose  yestermom, 
The  mountain  cliffs  adorning; 

The  goMtii  tassels  of  the  com 
Danced  in  the  breath  of  morning; 

The  cool,  clear  stream  that  runs  be- 
fore, 
Such  happy  words  was  saying, 


And  in  the  open  cottage  door 
My  pretty  babe  was  i)laying. 

Aslant  tbf  sill  a  sunbeam  lay: 
1  laughed  in  careless  pleasure 

To  see  his  little  hand  essay 
To  grasp  the  shining  treasure. 

To-day  no  shafts  of  golden  flame 

Across  the  sill  are  lying; 
To-day  I  call  my  baby's  name, 

Anii  hear  no  lisped  replying; 
To-<lay  —  ah.  baby  mine,  tonlay- 

(Jod  lioMs  thee  in  his  keepingi 
An<l  yet  1  weep,  as  one  pale  ray 

Breaks  in  upon  thy  sleeping  — 
1  weep  to  see  its  shining  bands 

Heaeh,  with  a  fond  endeavor. 
To  where  the  little  restless  hands 

Are  crossed  in  rest  forever  1 


Charles  Cotton. 


{From  Itftirement.] 

IN   THE    QUIET  OF  KATUIIK. 

Fakewell,  thou  busy  world,   and 
may 
We  never  meet  again ; 
Here   1   can   eat,   and    sleep,   and 
pray,  Iday, 

And  do  more  good   in   one   short 
Than  he  who  his  whole  age  out- 
wears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres. 
Where  nought  but  vanity  and   vii-e 
appears. 

Gooil  flodl  how  sweet  are  all  things 

here! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear! 

IIow  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie! 
I/<»rdI  what  good  hours  do  wu  keep! 
How  i|Uietly  we  slcrp! 

What  peact',  what  unanimity! 
How  iiMHX'ent  from  tin-  lewd  favliloii. 
Is  all  our  bu.sines.s,  all  our  recreation  ! 

Dear     solitude,     the     .soul's     best 
friend. 
That    Mian   aeipiainted   with   liinisell 
dost  make, 


And  all  his  Maker's  wonders  to  in- 
tend. 
With   thee   I   here  converse    al 

will. 
And  wdiild  be  glad  to  do  so  still. 
For  it  is  liinu  alone  that  keej/st  the 
soul  awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone 
To  read,  and  meditate,  and  write, 
liy  none  otfended,  and  otfending 
liciiie! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one's 

own  ease; 
And,   ]>l<-asing   a    man's  self,   none 
other  to  displease. 


CONTENT  A  TION. 

I  <\N  go  nowhere  but  1  mi'et 

With  nialeonleiits  .'iihI  nintinecrs, 

As  if  in  life  was  nothing  sweet, 
And    we    naist    blessings    reap    ifl 
tears. 


COWLEY. 


155 


Titles  and  wealth  are  fortune's  toils, 

Wiierewith    the    vain   themselves 

ensnare : 

The  great  are   proud    of    borrowed 

spoils, 

The  miser's  plenty  breeds  his  care. 

The  drudge  who  would  all  get,  all 
save, 
Like  a  brute  beast,  both  feeds  and 
lies; 
Prone    to    the    earth,  he    digs    his 
grave. 
And  in  the  very  labor  dies. 

Excess  of  ill-got,  ill-kept  pelf 

Does  only  death  and  danger  breed ; 
Whilst    one    rich   worldling  starves 
himself 
With  whai  would  thousand  others 
feed. 

Nor  is  he  happier  than  these, 
Who,  in  a  moderate  estate. 

Where  he  might  safely  live  at  ease. 
Has  lusts  tiiat  are  immoderate. 

Nor  is  he  happy  who  is  trim. 
Tricked  up  in  favors  of  the  fair, 

Mirrors,    with    every    breath    made 

dim,  [snare. 

Birds,    caught    in    every    wanton 

Woman,  man's  greatest  woe  or  bl:ss. 
Dot's  ofiener  far  than  scn'e,  en- 
slave ; 

And  with  the  magic  of  a  kiss  |save. 
Destroys  whom  she  was  mad«'  to 


There  are  no  ills  but  what  we  make 
By  giving  shapes  and    nann-s  tfl 
tilings, — 

Which  is  the  dangerous  mistake 
That  causes  all  our  sufferings. 

We    call    that    sickness    which    is 
health. 

That  persecution  which  is  grace, 
That  poverty  which  is  true  wealth. 

And  that  dishonor  which  is  praise. 

Alas !  our  time  is  here  so  short 
That    in  what    state  soe'er    t  is 
spent, 

Of  joy  or  woe,  does  not  import, 
Provided  it  be  innocent. 

But  we  may  make  it  pleasant  too. 
If  we  win  lake  our  m.MSures  right, 

And  not  what  heaven  has  done  undo 
By  an  imruly  appetite. 

The  world  is  full  of  beaten  roads. 
But  yet  so  slippery  willial. 

That  where  one  walks  secure,  't  is 
odds 
A  hundred  and  a  hundred  fall. 

Untrodden  paths  are  then  the  best. 
Where  the  frcciuented  are  unsure; 

And  he  comes  soonest  to  his  rest 
'\Vhose  journey  has  been  most  se- 
cure. 

It  is  content  alone  that  makes 
Our  piliiiiniaue  a  pleasure  here; 

And  wlio  buys  .sorrow  c-heapest  takes 
An  ill  commudiiy  too  dear. 


Abraham    Cowley. 


OF  MYfiELF. 

-.'HIS  only  grant  me,  that  my  means 

may  lie  |liigh. 

Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt   too 

Some  honor  1  would  have. 
Not  from  great  deeds, but  good  alone; 
The    unknown    ar*'    better   than    ill 
known: 
^lumor  can  ope  the  grave. 


Acquaintance    I    would    have,     but 

wben't  depends 
Not  on  the  nnminr.  but  the  choice, 

of  frieufls. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain 

till'  lii,'lit. 
And  sleep  as  undisturbed  as  death 

the  night. 
My  house  a  collage  more 


156 


COWLEY. 


"I'hiin  iiiiliu'f;  ami  should  iitting  be] 
For  all  my  iiso,  no  luxury. 

My  liariU'U  painti'd  o'er 
\Vith  Nalure's  liantl,  not  Art's;  aid 

pleasures  yield,  ! 

Iloraie    might    envy   in   his  Sabine 

field. 

Thus  \v<ndd  I  double  my  life's  fadinj; 

spaet' ; 
For  he  llial  runs  it  wi-ll  iwiee  runs 

bis  raee. 
And  in  this  true  delight. 
These   unbought   sports,   this  happy 

stale, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  my  fate; 

Ihil  boldly  say  eaeh  night, 
To-morrow  h-t  my  sun  his  beams  dis- 

Or  in  clouds  hide  them;  1  have  lived 
to-day. 


o.v  Tfif:  s/roirr.\r-:ss  or  i.nr. 

M.\i;k  that  swift  arrow,  how  it  ents 

llic  air. 

Mow  it  outruns  thy  following  eye! 

I'se  all  iiersuasions  now,  and  try 

It  thou  ransl  eall  it  baek  or  stay   it 

there. 

That  way  it  went;  but  thou  shalt 

tind 
No  track  is  left  behiiul. 

Foi  1!  'tis  thy  life,  and  the  fond  arch- 
er, ihoiil 
Of    r,ii    the    time    thou'st    shot 

away, 
ril  bid  thee  fetch  but  yesterday, 
.  I  it  shall  be  too  bard  a  task  to  do. 
I>e^ide    repenlaiiee,    what    canst 

tind 
That  it  hath  left  behind  ? 

.    his  past  life,  who  without  grief 
can  see, 
Wl'o   never  thinks  his  end  too 
near, 


Hut    says    to    Fame,     Thou   art 

mine  heir, — 
That    man     extends     life's     natural 

brevity: 
This  is,  this  is  the  only  way 
To  outlive  Nestor  in  a  day. 


\_From  /leason.] 

liKASaX  AN  AID  '/'(>  HE  I  ELATION. 

riioi(iii     Reason     cannot     ihrougb 
Faith's  mysteries  see. 
It  sees  that  there  and  suc-li  I  here  b»', 
Leads   to   heaven's   door,   and   then 
does  humbly  keep. 
And  then  through  chinks  and  key- 
boles    JH'Cp. 
Though  it,  like  ^Moses,  by  a  sad  <-om- 
mantl 
Must  not  come  into 'be  lioly  I.Mnd, 
Vet  thither  it  infallibly  doe^  guide, 
And  from  afar  'tis  all  descried. 


[From  Erii  uilsliip  in  Ah.i»iicr.] 
in  STANCE    NO    liAUniEli     TO    Tllh 

son.. 

Wili'.N  chaiu'e  or  cruel  business  paria 

us  I  wo. 
What  do  our  souls,  1  wonder,  do  i* 
Whilst  sleep  does  our  dull  bodies  li<', 
Methinks  at    lionn'  tliey   slmuld  not 

slay 
Content  with  dreams, — but  boldly  (ly 
.\broad,   and    meet   ea<'b    other  lialf 

the  way. 

'Twere  an  ill  wurld.   I'll  swear.  for 

every  frieml. 
If  distaiH'e  <'<iiild  their  union  end: 
Ibit  love  itself  does  far  advance 
Above  the  power  of  time  and  spa  e. 
It  scorns  such  outward  eiiciunslanee, 
His  time's  forever,    everywhere,  hl» 

place. 


vowrKii. 


157 


William   Cowper. 


LIGHT  SHINING   OUT  OF 
DARKNESS. 

God  moves  in  a  myj^'^r  ?r.    way 

His  wonders  to  per  crni; 
He  plants  hih  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  His  bright  tlesigns, 

And  works  His  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take, 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 

Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  Itreak 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 
But  trust  Him  for  His  grace; 

Uehind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast. 

Unfolding  every  hour; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 
And  scan  His  work  in  vain: 

God  is  His  own  interpreter. 
And  He  will  make  it  plain. 


THE   I'OPLAH    FIELD. 

The  poplars  are  felled;  farewell  to 

the  shadi'. 
And    the    wiiisiiering  sound    of   the 

cool  colonnade  I 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in 

the  l(>aves. 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image 

receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed   since  1 

first  1  ook  a  view 
Of  jpy  favoiite  field,  axid   tlie  bank 

.vl.eic  they  grew, 


And  now  in  the   grass  behold  they 

are  laid. 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once 

lent  me  a  shade! 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  re 

treat, 
Where  1  he  hazels  afford  him  a  screen 

from  the  heat. 
And    the    scene    where   his   meloiiy 

charmed  me  before 
Resounds    with    his     sweet-flowing 

ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive    years    are    all  hasting 

away. 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as 

they. 
With  a  turf  on   my  breast,  and  a 

stone  at  my  head, 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in 

its  stead. 

'Tis  a  sight  to  engage  mc,  if  any- 
thing can. 

To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures 
of  man ; 

Thongli  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  en- 
joyments, 1  see. 

Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than 
he. 


[From  The  Task.] 

AI'OSTHOrilE    TO   POPULAR 
APPLALSE. 

O  poiMi.AU  applause!  what  heart 

of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing 

charms  ? 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent 

need 
Of  all  their  caution   in    thv   gentlest 

gales; 
But  swelled  into  a  gust  —  who  then, 

alas! 


£58 


COW  PER. 


Willi  all  his  canvas  set,  and  ini-xiu'il. 

And  thcrcfoiv  hcrdloss,  can  willi- 
stanii  thy  power '? 

Praise  from  the  rivelled  lips  of  tooth- 
less, bald 

Di'crepitnde,  and  in  the  looks  of 
lean 

And  cniving  poverty,  and  in  the  how 

Kespectfnl  of  the  smutched  artilicer. 

Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much 
(iisturi) 

riie  bias  of  the  purpose.  How 
much  more 

I'oiirftl  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and 
polile. 

In  hinnuai^e  soft  as  adoration 
i)reathes  ? 

Ah,  s] tare  your  idol!  think  him  hu- 
man still ; 

Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has 
frailties  too; 

Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye 
admire. 


[From  The  Task.'] 
THE  FHEEDOAf  OF  THE  GOOD. 

Hk  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth 

makes  fre<\ 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's 

not  a  chair. 
That  hellish  foes  ccmfederate  for  his 

harm 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts 

it  olT 
With  as  niu<;h  ea.se  as  Sam.sou  his 

;,'rc<ii  withes. 
Ii>'  looks  abroad  into  tlie  varied  field 
Of  nalun-,  and  tliou;{li  poor  perhaps, 

compare  I 
With  those  whost-  mansions  glitter 

in  his  si;,'ht, 
Oalls   the   deli^'htfiil  scenery  all  his 

own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  val- 
leys his, 
.\nd  the  resplendent  rivers. 

Yes  —  ye   may  (ill   your  garners,  ye 

lliat  reap 
The  lo.ided  soil,   ;md   ye   may   waflto 

nuich  ^ood 


In  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 

In  feast  or  in  the  chase,  in  son;;  oi 
dance, 

A  liberty  like  his,  who  unimpeached 

Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's 
wtoiil;. 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's 
work. 

And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours,  than 
you. 

He  is  indeed  a  freeman;  free  by  birth 

Of  no  mean  city,  planned  or  e'er  the 
hills 

Were  built,  the  fountains  opened,  or 
the  sea 

With  all  his  roaring  midtitude  of 
waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every 
stale ; 

And  no  condition  of  this  chanjieful 
life, 

.So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every 
day 

Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it 
less : 

For  he  has  wind's  that  neither  sick- 
ness, pain, 

X(jr  penury  can  cripple  or  confine. 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads 
them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large.  The  op- 
pressor holds 

His  body  bound,  but  knows  not 
what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a 
chain. 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  at- 
tempt 

^Mlom  (iod  ilelights  in,  and  in 
whom  he  dwells. 


[From  Th)-   Tufk.] 

THE  U'lSTEifs  Frhx/yn. 

Now  stir  the  (ire,  ami  <  lose  the  shut 

tei-s  fast. 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel   the  sofa 

round, 
.\nd,   while  the  bubbling  and    loud 

hissing  urn 
Throws   up   a    steamy  rolunin.    ami 

ih  ■  .-ups. 


GOWPER. 


1:9 


That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on 

each. 
So  let  us  weleome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Not  such  liis  evening,  who  witli  shin- 
ing face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  ami, 

squeezed 
A.nd  bored  with  elbow-points  through 

both  his  sides, 
Outscolds  llie  ranting  actor  on  the 

stage : 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his 

feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon 

the  breath 
Of  patriots,  l)ursting  w  ith  heroic  rage. 
Or    placemen,   all    tranquillity    and 

smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work! 
Which  not  even  critics  criticize;  that 

holds 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read. 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which 

tlie  fair. 
Though  elofpient  themselves,  yet  fear 

to  break; 
What  is  it  but  a  map  of  busy  life. 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns? 

'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes 

of  ietreat. 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  to  see  the 

stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the 

crowd ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through 

all  iier  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying 

soiuul 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured 

ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at 

ease 
riie  globe  and  its  concerns.  I  seem 

advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal 

lieight. 
That  libcrati's  and  exempts  me  from 

th.-ni  all. 
It  turns  siil)uutted  to  my  view,  turns 

round 
Witli  all  its  generations;  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.    The  sound 

of  war 


Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  i-eaches  me; 
(irieves,  but  alarms  me  not.    1  mourn 

the  pride 
And  avarice,  that  make  man  a  wolf 

to  man; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen 

throats,     • 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of 

his  heart. 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the 

sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from 

land  to  land ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay   contribiUion    to    the    store    he 

gleans ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime. 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep 

research 
At  his  return, —  a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his 

deck. 
Ascend    his    topmast,    through    his 

peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred 

heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  es- 
capes ; 
AVhile  fancy,    like   the   linger  of    a 

clock. 
Rims  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at 

home. 

0  winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  ye;ir. 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet   lik' 

ashes  filled. 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips. 

thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  wit  li 

other  snows 
Than    those    of    age,   thy    forehcail 

wrapped  in  clouds, 
A   leafless   l)ranch   thy  sceptre,  ami 

thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheel: , 
But   urged   l)y  storms  along  its  slir- 

Ijcry  way, 

1  love    thee,    all    unlovely  as    tliou 

seem'st. 
And    dreaded    as    thou     aril     Thou 

hold'st  the  sun 
A    prisoner   in    the    yet   uudawnlny 

east, 


ICO 


cow  PER. 


Sliortonimihis  jonrni'y  between  morn 

an<l  noon. 
Ami  hurrying  liini,  impatient  of  liis 

stay, 
Down  to  I  lie  ro'^y  west;  but  kindly 

still 
Compensatinu    bis   loss   with   atldcd 

liom's 
Of  social  Vonverse    and    instruetiv*' 

case. 
And  ualbfiini'  at  sliorl  notice,  in  one 

ijronji 
TIk-    family    dispersed,    and     (ixiiiL: 

tliuiiL;lit, 
N'ot  less  disiiersed  by  dayligbt  and 

its  eares. 
1   crown  tliec  kinif  of   intimate  de- 

lii;lits. 
Fireside  enjoyments,  bomeborn  liap- 

liincss, 
And  all  tbe  comforts  tbat   tlie  lowly 

roof 
Of  nndistiuhed   retirement,  and  tbe 

bours 

<  Hlon;:,'  iiiiiiitcrru]>tedevenint;,  know. 
No  rattlim,'  wbeels  stop  sbort  before 

llu'.M'  flairs; 
No  powderetl  perl   prtili-ient  in  the 
art 

<  >f  s((inidiMi4  ail  alarm  assanlts  these 

doors 

{'ill  tlic  street  riiifis;  no  stationary 
St Is 

(.'oiiyb  their  own  knell,  while,  heed- 
less of  the  sound. 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and 
<|iiake: 

I  Jut  here  tbe  needle  plieji  its  busy 
task. 

I'be  pattern  grows,  tbe  woll-4lepieted 
tlower, 

Wrought  |>atiently  into  the  snowy 
lawn. 

Unfolds  its  bosom:  bud-*,  and  le.ives, 
«nd  sprigs. 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  dis- 
posed, 

fMJl.iw  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A  \\re;it|i.  that  <-ann<il,  fade,  of  llow- 
"•i~.  that  blow 

Willi  most  suee<-HS  when  all  Itesidr, 
deeay. 

riie  I'oet's  or  histi)rian'»  piHje  by 
one 


Made  vocal  for  the  anui  >ement  of  th? 

rest : 
The  sprigbliy  lyre,  whose  treasure  ol 

sweel  sounds 
The  touch   from   many  a  trtmbling 

chord  shakes  out; 
And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet 

distinct. 
And    in  the  charming  strife  Irium- 

idiant  still, 
IJeguilf  the  night,  and  set  a  keener 

eilge 
(.)n    female    industi-y:    the    threaded 

steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  uiifeli  the  task  pro- 
ceeds. 


[From  Tl„-  Task.] 
Mi:i:<Y    TO  ASIMALf;. 

I  wori.i)  not  enter  on  my  list   of 

friends, 
(Though  graced  with  itolished  man- 
ners and  line  sense. 
Yet  wanting  sensibility.)  the  man 
Who    needlessly    sets   foot    upon    a 

worm. 
An  inadvertent  stej)  may  crush  the 

snail 
Tbat  crawls  at  eveniug  in  the  public 

path: 
Hut    he    tbat    has    humanity,    for- - 

warned. 
Will  tread  asid«'.  and  let  tbe  reptile 

live. 
Tbe  creepiui:  vermin,  loathsome   to 

the  siglll. 

And  cbargcil    perhaps   with  venom. 

that  in! rude-. 
.\  visitor  imwelcome,  inlo  scenes 
.Saered   to    neatness  ami  repose,  tlu 

alcove, 
Tbe  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die: 
A  n«'cessary  act  incurs  uo  blame. 
Not  so  wIh'U,  held  w  ilhin  their  proper 

bounds. 
Ami   guiltless  of  otVeucc,  they  range 

the  air 
<  ir  take  tlicir  patime  in  the  si»acious 

Held. 
There   ibey   are  privileged;    mid    bo 

that  hunts 


COWPER. 


161 


Or  harms  thoin  there  is  guilty  of  a 

wronji. 
Disturbs    thi-   economy  of   Nature's 

reahu, 
Who,   when   she    formed,   designed 

'them  an  abode. 
The  sum  is  this:  If   man's  conven- 
ience, health, 
Or  safety  interfere,  his    rights  and 

claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish 

theirs. 
Else  they  are  all  —  the  meanest  things 

that  are  — 
As  free  lo  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life. 
As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the 

first. 
Who  in  his  sovereign  wisdom  made 

them  all. 
Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach 

your  sons 
To  love  it  too. 


[From  Tlw  TasI:.] 
THE   POST-BOY. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn !  o'er 

yonder  bridge. 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needless 

length 
iJestrldes  the  wintry  flood;  in  whieh 

the  moon 
Sees  her   unwrinkled   face   reflected 

bright:  — 
lie  comes,  tjie  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 
AVitli  s|>aUered  boots,  strapped  waist, 

and  frozen  lucks. 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at 

his  back. 
True  to   his  task,   the  close-packed 

load  behind. 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one 

concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn: 
And    having   diopped   the   expected 

bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted 

wretch. 
Cold  and  vet  elieerfid:  messenger  of 

grief 
l'erba]is  io  lliousands,  and  of  joy  to 

some:  I  joy. 

To  him  inditfiT.-iil   w  iirllier  grii-i'  or 


[Fmm  Retirement  } 

TIJE  SUVLs    I'UOaUE.s.S   CHECKED 
HV  TOO  Ali.'iO/i/s/Xl!    LuVi:. 

As  woodbine  weds  the  plant  within 

her  reach. 
Rough  elm,  or  smooth-grained  ash, 

or  glossy  beech. 
In  spiral  rings  ascends  the  trunk,  and 

lays 
Her  golden  tassels  on  the  leafy  sprays. 
But  does  a  mischief  while  she  lends 

a  grace, 
Straitening  its  growth  by  such  a  strict 

embrace. 
So  love  that  clings  around  tlu;  noblest 

minds. 
Forbids  the  advancement  of  the  soul 

he  binils. 


ALEXANDER  SELKIRK. 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey. 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute, 
From  tie  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 

I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  solitude!  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach. 

I  must  linish  my  joiu'ney  alone. 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  sju'ech : 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain. 

My  form  with  indifference  see. 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  fameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love, 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man. 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove. 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  .again! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  a;;suage 

In  the  ways  of  religion  ami  Inilb. 
Might  Icirn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And   Ix'  cheered    by  the  sallifS  of 
youth. 

Religion  I  wliat  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heaveidy  wordi 


182 


CUWPEB. 


Mnn-  precjous  than  silvor  and  i^old. 

Or  all  that  this  i-arth  ran  alVord. 
I5iil  the  sound  of   the   clunrh-uoing 
hell, 
Thc'se    valleys    and     rocks    never 
heard, 
N'e'er  sighed  at  the  soiuid  of  a  knell, 
Or    si;  iled    when    a  Sabbath   ap- 
ptdred. 

Ve  winds  that  have  made  me  your 
sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore, 
bume  eorili:il  cndearinj;  report 

Of  a  i.tiid  I  ^hall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and   then 
send 

A  wish  or  a  thouijht  after  nie  ? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Thou;^h  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  Heel  is  the  f,danee  of  the  mind ! 

Compared   with  the  speed   of    its 
tliidil. 
The  tempest  itself  lai;s  behind. 

And   llie    swift-win^^ed   arrows   of 
li.iiht. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land. 

In  a  niunienl  1  seem  to  be  there; 
JintalasI  reenllertioii  at  hand 

boon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  lias  gone  to  her  nest. 

The  beast  is  laiil  down  in  his  lair, 
P'ven  here  is  a  season  of  rest. 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
Tlii-re's  iiierey  in  <'ver\  jihuf , 

.Villi  mercy,  eni-ouraying  llioui^htl 
(iive.s  even  atUiction  a  ;irace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


TO  MAHY. 

Tni",  t Weill i<tb  year  is  well  ni^'h  past 
.Since  lirsl  our  sky  was  overcast ;  — 
Ah,  would  that  this  nd.ubl  be  the  lasl ! 
.My  Mary! 

Thy  HjiiriN  ba\.-  .1  lainler  (low, 
1  see  tb<'<-  daily  \M'ak<T  urow  :  — 
'Twas  my  disln^s  that    bniiiL;bl    line 
low, 

Aly  .Mary! 


Thy  needb'S.  once  a  shinint;  store, 
l''(ii'  my  >aki'  ri'^iicss  beri-lotoiT. 
Nou  rust  di>used,  and  shine  no  more. 
My  .Mary! 

For  IboULcb  lliou  uladly  woulilst  fultil 
The  same  kind  ollice  forme  still, 
Thv  sii,'ht  now  seconds  not  thv  will. 
My  Mary ! 

Mut  well  thou  i)lay'dst  the  housewife's 

part. 
And  all  tiiy  threads  with  majjic  art. 
Have   wound   themselves  about    this 

heart, 

My  Mai7 ! 

Thy  in<listinct  exjuessions  seem 
Like  languaLie  uttered  in  a  dream: 
Yet    me   they   charm,    whale'er    the 
theme. 

My  Mary ! 

'I'hy  silver  locks,  once  anbuin  bright. 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  si^bt 
'I'han  jnolden  beams  of  orient  liubt. 
M\  -Mary! 

Tor  could  1  view  nor  them  nor  thee. 
What    sijiht  worth    seeing    could    I 

see '.» 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 
.My  Mary! 

Parlakei-s  of  thy  sad  decline, 
'l"by  bands  their  little  force  resii;n: 
Vet  gently  pressed,  press  m-ntlv  mine. 
My  .Mar>  ! 

.Such  feebleness  of  liiidi  thon  ])rovesl, 
'I'bat  now  at  every  sic]i  thou  mo\cst. 
I'ldidd  by  two;  vet  still  tliou  lovest. 
My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  pres-std  with 

ill. 
In  winliy  age  to  feel  no  chill. 
With  inc  is  III  be  luvelv  still. 

My  -Mary! 

Ihil  ah!  by  constant  heed  1  know, 
llmv  oft  tile  sadness  (hat  I  show 
Transforms  tb\  -ndles  to  looks  of  woe! 
My  Mary! 

.\nd  should  my  fntiire  lot  be  cast 
With  nnicli  rcsendilanci-  of  the  ]iast, 
'J'hv  \Norn-out  btail  will  break  at  last, 
MyMuryl 


CRABBE. 


163 


George  Crabbe. 


[From  Edward  Shore.] 
THE  PERILS  OF  GENIUS. 

Genius!  thou  gift  of  Heaven!  thou 

light  divine! 
Amid  wha?  dangers  art  thou  doomed 

to  shine! 
'  ;ft  will  the  body's  weakness  check 

thy  force, 
Oft  damp  thy  vigor,  and  impede  thy 

course ; 
And  trembling  nerves  compel  thee  to 

restrain 
Thy  nobler  efforts,  to  contend  with 

pain : 
Or  Want  (sad  guest!)  will  in  thy  pres- 
ence come, 
And  breathe  around  her  melancholy 

gloom : 
To    life's  low  cares  will  thy  proud 

thought  confine, 
And  make  her  sufferings,  her' impa- 
tience thine. 
Evil  and  strong,  seducing  passions 

prey 
On  soaring  minds,  and  win  them  from 

their  way, 
Who  then  to  Vice  the  subject  spirits 

give,  [live: 

And  in  the  service  of  the  conqueror 
Like  captive  Samson  making  sport 

for  ail, 
Who  feared  their  strength,  and  glo- 

r"  in  tlieir  fall. 
Genius,  with  virtue,  still  may  lack 

the  aid 
Implored     by    humble   minds,    and 

liearts  afraid : 
May  leave  to  limid  souls  the  shield 

and  sword 
Of  the  tried  Faitli  and  the  resistless  I 

AVonI: 
Amid  a  world  of  dangers  venturing 

fortl,,  ^ 

Frai!,  but  yet  fearless,  proud  in  con- 
scious wortii, 
Tili  strong  temptation,  in  some  fatal 

time. 
Assails  the  lieart.  and  wins  tlie  soul 

to  crime, 


When  left  by  honor,  and  by  sorrow 

spent. 
Unused  to  pray,  unable  to  repent. 
The  nobler  powers  tliat  once  exalted 

high 
Th'  aspiring  man  shall  then  degr;      d 

lie: 
Reason,  through   anguish,  shall   h 

throne  forsake, 
And  strengtli  of  mind   but  stronger 

madness  make. 


[From  Edward  Shore.] 

SLEEP   THE  DETIi ACTOR   OF 
BEAUTY. 

We  indeed  have  heard 

Of  sleeping  beauty,  and   it  lias  ap- 
peared : 

'Tis  seen  in  infants  —  there  indeed 
we  find. 

The  features  softened  by  the  slinu- 
bering  mind; 

But  other  beauties,  when  disposed  to 
sleej). 

Should  from  the  eye  of  keen  inspec- 
tor keep: 

The   lovely  nymph   who  would   her 
swain  suri)rise. 

May  close  her  mouth,  but  not  coneoal 
her  eyes; 

Sleep    from    the    fairest  face    some 
beauty  takes. 

And  all  the  homely  features  homelie 
makes. 


[From  Edward  Shore.] 
THE    VACILLATISG   PURPOSE. 

Who  often  reads  will  sometimes  wish 

to  write. 
And  Siiore    would    yielil    instruction 

and  deliglit ; 
A    serious  drama   he  designed,  but 

found 
'T  was    tedious     travelling    in     thai 

gloomy  ground ; 


164 


CRAB  BE. 


A   deep  and  solemn  story  ho  would    Thon  caros  domestic  rush  upon  his 


tn-. 


mind. 


But  crew  ashamed  of  jihosts,  and  laid    And  half  the  ease  and  eomfoit  he 


il  hv; 
Sermons  he  wroti',  but  tliey  wlio  l<mw 

his  creed. 
Or  knew  it  not,  wen-  ill  disposed  to 

read ; 
And  he  would  lastly  be  the  nation's 

guide, 
JUit,  sliidyinu,   failed   to  tix  upon  a 

side; 
Fame  lu*  <iesired,  and  talents  lie  pos- 
sessed. 
Hut  loved  not  labor,  tnough  he  could 

not  rest, 
Nor  lirmly  fix  the  vaiillatiuL;  mind. 
That,  ever  workiug,  could  no  centre 

find. 


[From  Schools.] 
THE   TEACH  Eli. 

IIk,  while  his  troop  light-hearted  leap 

and  l>lay. 
Is  all  intent  on  duties  of  the  day; 
No  niort*  the  tyrant  stern  or  judge 

severe, 
lie   feels  the   father's  and  the  hiis- 

i)an<rs  fear. 
All!    little  think  the  timid,  tnui- 

bliug  crowd. 
That   one  so  wise,  so  powerful,  aud 

so  ]iroud, 
{Should    fi'cl    binisclf,  and  dread   tlie 

illMuble  ills 
Of  reul-ilay  charges  and  of  enalnieu's 

bills; 
That   while   they  mercy   from    their 

jud;.'e  iuijilore. 
He  fears  liiniself  —  a  knocking  at  the 

door: 
And  feels  the  burden  as  his  neighbor 

states 
His   humble   poilion   to  the   parish- 
rates. 
They    .sit  the  allotted    liuius.  then 

eager  run. 
KtlHhini;  in  jde.isure  when  the  duty's 

•  Imih-: 
ili.s  hour  of   pleasure  i.-,  (if  dilTereiil 

khid. 


injoy-;. 
Is  when  surrounded  by  slates,  books, 
and  boys. 


[From  !<cliix>ls.] 
LKAHSISr,   IS   I.MiOR 

To  learning's  second  seats  we  now 

proceed. 
Where     hiuuming    students     gilded 

lirimers  re.id ; 
Or  books  with  letters  large  and  pic- 
tures gay. 
To  make  tin  ir  reading  but  a  kind  of 

l)lay  — 
"  Heading  made  Easy,''  so  the  titles 

teli: 
Hut  they  who  r-atl  tiiust  tirst  begin 

to  spell ; 
There  niay  be  piolit  In  these  arts,  but 

still. 
Learning  is  labor,  call    it   what  von 

will; 
Upcm  the  youthful  mind  a  heavy  load. 
Nor  must  we  hope  to  liuil   the  royal 

road. 
Some  M  ill  their  easy  steps  to  .science 

show. 
.\nd  some  to  heaveu  itself  their  by- 

w.iy  know: 
.\bl  trust   tbeui  not.  —  wlio  faiui-  or 

liljss  woidd  share. 
.Must  learii  by  labor,  and  nuisi  live  by 

care. 


I /''row  the  (ienlh-mnn  Farrnrr.] 

Foii.Y  OF  i./r/ntTioy. 
Who  would  by  law  r<-gain  his  phm- 

deied  store. 
Would    pi<k  u|i  fail'ii   mereury  froui 

ibe  lloor: 
If    he    plUsUe    it,    here  auil    liiere    it 

sji.l.s, 

lie  \M>ul  I   .'ojjcci  il,  but  il  more  di< 

\ld..., 


CRAB  BE. 


165 


This  part  and  this  he  stops,  but  still 

in  vain, 
It  slips   aside,  and  breaks   in  parts 

again ; 
Till,  after  time  and  pains,  and  care 

and  cost, 
He  finds  his  labor  and  his  object  lost. 


[From  The  Gentleman  Farmer.] 

AGAINST  RASH  OPINIONS. 

When  men  in  health  against  phy- 
sicians rail. 
They    should     consider    that    their 

nerves  may  fail, 
Who  calls  a  lawyer  rogue,  may  find, 

too  late, 
On  one  of  these  depends  his  whole 

estate : 
Nay,  when   the  world  can    noHiing 

more  produce. 
The  priest,  the  insulted  priest,  may 

have  his  use; 
Ease,  health,  and  comfort  lift  a  man 

so  hi^h, 
These  powers  are  dwarfs  that  he  can 

scarcely  spy: 
Pain,  sickness,  languor,  keep  a  man 

so  low. 
That  these  neglected  dwarfs  to  giants 

grow : 
Happy  is  he  who  through  the  medium 

sees 
Of  clear  good  sense. 


[From  The  PfirisJi  Register.] 
TUP.    AW  FPL    VACANCY. 

AiiijiVKi)  at  home,  how  then  they 

ga/.ed  around, 
In    every    place,  —  where   she  —  no 

nioie  was  foinid;  — 
Tile  seat  al  tal)!e  she  was  wont  to  fill: 
The  fireside  chair,  still  set,  but  vacant 

still: 
The  uarden-walks,  a  labor  all  her  own : 
The    latticed    l)()wer,    with    trailing 

shrubs  o'ergrown; 


'I'he  Sunday  pew  she  filled  with  all 

her  rae-.-.  — 
Each  place  of  hers  was  now  a  sacreii 

place. 
That,  while  it  called  up  sorrows  in 

the  eyes, 
IMerced  the  full  heart  and  forced  then; 

still  lA)  rise. 
O  sacred  Sorrow  I  by  whom  soul 

are  tried, 
Sent  not  to  punish  mortals,  but  tc 

guide; 
If    thou  art  mine,    (and   who  shall 

proudly  dare 
To  tell   his  Maker  he  has  had  hi>, 

share  ?) 
Still  let  me  feel  for  what  tky  pangs 

were  sent. 
And  be  my  guide  aiid  not  my  punish- 
ment ! 


■^Proin  The  I>umh  Orators.] 
MAN'^   DISLIKE   TO  BE  LED. 

Man  will  not  follow  where  a  rule  is 

shown. 
But  loves  to  take  a  method  ot   his 

own; 
Explain  the  way  with  all  your  care 

and  skill, 
This  will  he  ([uit,  if  but  to  prove  he 

will. 


[From  The  Village.] 

APOSTRO/'HE    TO   THE   WKfMSI- 
CAL. 

Say,  ye  opprest  by  some  fantastic 
woes. 

Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  you: 
repose ; 

Who  press  the  downy  couch  while 
slaves  advance 

With  timid  eye  to  read  the  distant 
glance; 

Who  with  sa<l  prayers  the  wear>-  doc- 
tor tease. 

To  name  the  nameless  ever-nev 
disease; 


166 


ChABBK 


Who  with  mock  iiiitit-nco  dire  com- 

Ithiints  iMiiiun', 
Wliich  real  pain,  and  that  alone  can 

ciiiv; 
I  low  would  ye  hear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 
Dopisi'd.  nt'.i,'li'ctcd,  left  alone  to  die '.' 
How   would   ye   bear  to  draw   your 

latest  hreath. 
Where  all  that's  wretched  paves  the 

wav  for  death  ? 


[From  Prisons  J] 

THE  COXDEMSED:  HIS  DREAM 
AM)  ITS  AUAhEX/M;. 

Stii.i,  I  It.'hold  him,  every  thought 

employed 
On  one  dire  view!  —  all  others  are 

destroyed; 
This  makes  his  features  ghastly,  gives 

the  tone 
<  )f  liis  few  words  resemblance  to  a 

1,'roan ; 
He  takes  his  tasteless  food,  and  when 

't  is  done, 
foimts  up  liis  meals,   now  lessened 

by  tliat  one; 
For  exjieetation  is  on  time  intent. 
Whether  he  brings  us  joy  or  punish- 
ment. 
Yes!  e'en  In  sleep  the  impressions 

all  remain, 
lie  hears  the  sentence  and  he  feels 

the  eiiaiii; 
lie  sees  tile  judi,'e  and  jury,  when  lie 

-hakes, 
And  loiiilly  cries,  "Not  guilty."  ami 

awakes; 
Then    ebilling  tremblings    o'er    his 

liody  creep, 
rill  worn-out  nature  is  compelled  to 

slee]>. 
Now   comes  the  dream   again:    it 

shows  each  scene. 
With  each  small   clrcumstimce  that 

comes  between  — 
The   i;dl    lo   HutTering  and  the   verv 

de.-d  — 
'I'here  crowds  go  with   him,   fullow. 

and  precede; 
Home  heartless  mIiouI,  some  pity,  all 

<  oiidemii. 


While  he  in  fancieil  envy   looks  al 
them: 

He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to 
see. 

And   dreams   the  very  thirst  which 
then  will  be: 

A  priest  attends —  it  seems,  the  one 
1  e  knew 

In  his  l)est  days,  beneath  whose  care 
he  grew. 
At  this  his  terrors  take  a  sudden 
flight. 

He  sees  his  native  village  with  de- 
light: 

The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he 
oiiei'  arrayed 

His  youtiiful  person;  where  he  knelt 
nnd  prayed; 

Then  too  the  comforts  he  enjoyed  at 
home. 

The  days  of  joy:  the  joys  themselves 
are  come ;  — 

The  hours  of  innocence;  —  the  timid 
look 

Of  his   loved  maid,   when    fii-st   her 
hand  he  took. 

And   told   his  hope;    her  trembling 
joy  appears. 

Her  for I  reserve,  and  his  retreat- 
ing fears. 
All  now   is  present;  —  'tis  a  mo- 
ment's gleam 

Of  fonner  sunshine  —  slay,  dellghlful 
dream ! 

I,el  him  within  liis  jdeasant  garden 
walk, 

Give  him  her  arm;  of  blessings  let 
them  talk. 
Yes!  all  are  with  him  now,  and  all 
the  while 

Life's  early  jn-ospecls  and  his  Fan- 
ny's smile: 

Then  come  his  sister,  and  his  village- 
friend. 

And   he   will,  now  the  sweetest  mo- 
ments snend 

Life  lwi.s  to  yield; —  No!  never  will  ho 
liiid 

.\g!iin  on  earth  such  i)lea>*ures  in  his 
min<l : 

He  goes  thri>ui;li  shrubby  walks  these 
friends  among. 

Love  in    llnir  looks  and    hnimr   oa 
their  tongue: 


CRABBE. 


w 


Nay,  there's  a  charm   beyond  what 

nature  shows. 
The  bloom  is  softer  and  more  sweetly 

glows ;  — 
Pierced  by  no  crime,  and  urged  by 

no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts 

require, 
They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus 

proceed. 
Through  the  green  lane,  —  then  lin- 
ger in  the  mead,  — 
Stray  o'er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple 

bloom,  — 
And  pluck  the  blossoms  where  the 

wild  bees  hum; 
Then  thiough  the  broomy  bound  with 

ease  they  pass, 
And  press    the    sandy  sheepwalk's 

slender  grass 
Where  dwarfisli   flowers  among  the 

gorse  are  spread, 
And  the  lamb  browses  by  the  linnet's 

bed; 
I!    11  'cross  the  boimding  brook  they 

make  their  way 
O'er  its  rough  biidge  and  there  be- 
hold the  bay !  — 
The  ocean    smiling    to    the    fervid 

sun  — 
The  waves  that  faintly  fall  and  slowly 

I'un  — 
The  ships  at  distance  and  the  boats 

at  hand ; 
And  now  they  walk  upon   the  sea- 

siile  sand, 
Counting  the  number  and  what  kind 

they  be, 
Sliips  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea: 
Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they 

behold 
The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles 

rolled : 
The  timid  girls,  half  dreading  their 

design. 
Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  retarded 

brine, 
And  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which 

spreading  flow. 
Or  lie  like  jnc-tures  on  the  sand  below : 
With   all  those   bright   red   pebbles. 

that  the  sun 
Through   the  snudl  waves  so  softly 

shines  upon ; 


And  those  live  lucid  jellies  which  th« 

eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  they  swim  glit- 
tering by: 
Pearl-shells  and  lubied  star-fish  they 

admire. 
And  will  arrange  above  the  parlor 

fire,  — 
Tokens  of  bliss! —  "  Oh!  horrible!  a 

wave 
Roars  as  it  rises  —  save  me,  Edward! 

save!" 
She  cries: —  Alas!  the  watchman  on 

his  way 
Calls,  and  lets  in  —  truth,  terror,  and 

the  day ! 


[From  The  I.niwr's  Journey.'] 

EXTERXAL  [MPnESSIOyS  DEPEN 
DENT  ON   THE  SOUL'S  MOODS. 

It  is  the  Soul  that  sees:  the  out 

ward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  Mind  de- 
scries ; 
And  thence  delight,  disgust,  or  coo] 

indifference  rise: 
When  minds  are  joyful,  then  we  look 

aro'.uid, 
And    what   is    seen   is  all   on    fairy 

ground ; 
Again  tliey  sicken,  and  on  eveiy  view 
Cast  their  own  dull  aud  melancholy 

hue; 
Or,  if  absorbed  ijy  their  peculiar  cares. 
The  vacant  eye  on  viewless  matter 

glares. 
Our  feelings  still  upon  our  views  at 

temi. 
And  their  own  natures  .o  the  objects 

lend ;  [sure. 

Sorrow  and  joy  are  in  their  influence 
Long  as  the  piission  reigns  th'  effects 

endure: 
IJut  Love  in  minds  his  various  changes 

makes, 
And   clothes  each    object    with  the 

clmnge  he  takes; 
His  light,  and  shade  on  every  view; 

be  throws, 
Ai.il  on  each  object,  what  he  feels, 

bestows. 


iC)8 


CRABBE. 


\From  Tlw  f'artiufj  Hour.] 
Lift:. 

MiM'TKi.Y  trace  man's  lifo:   \car 

aftor  year. 
rhroiii;h  all  his  ilays  hi  all  his  deeds 

ainiear. 
Villi  then,  though  some  may  iu  that 

lifo  ho  strange, 
Yet  there  appears  no  vast  nor  sudden 

chaiij^e: 
The  links   tliat  hind    those  various 

deeds  are  seen, 
And  IK)  niyslerious  void  is   left  be- 
tween. 
Bui  lei  these  binding  links  be  all 

destroyed. 
All  thai  tlirough  years  he  suffered  or 

enjoyed : 
I.i't  tliat  vast  gap  be  made,  and  tluMi 

behold  — 
riiis  was  the  youth,  and  he  is  thus 

when  old ; 
PIh'ii  we   at  onee  the  work  of  time 

survey. 
And  in  an  instant  see  a  life's  decay; 
I'ain  mixed  willi  pily  in  our  bosoms 

ri'^e. 
And  sorrow  takes  new  sadness  from 

surprise. 


[From  Thi'  Pnrtinr)  l[our.\ 
FIUE.\l)SHIf  l.\  AflE  A.Kn  .SORROW. 

Bknkatii  yon  tree,  obsen'e  an  an- 
cient pair  — 

A  sleeping  man;  a  woman  in  her 
chair. 

Watching  his  looks  wiili  kind  and 
juiiMVe  air; 

Vor  wife,  nor  sister  she,  nor  is  the 
name 

S'or  kinilred  of  this  friendly  i>air  the 
same; 

iTet  HO  allied  are  thev.  that  few  can 
fe,.| 

Her  "on  tani,  warm,  unwearied,  anx- 
ious /,!  al; 

rimlr  years  and  W()es,  allliotigh  Ihev 
long  lia\e  loved. 

Keep  Iheii  ^lod  naiii''  and  eoiiduet 
inir  priived  : 


Thus  life's  small  comforts  tney  to- 
gether sliare, 

And  while  life  lingers,  for  the  grave 
prepare. 
No  other  subjects  on  their  spirits 
jiress. 

Nor  gain  such  interest  as  the  past  dis- 
t  ress ; 

Grievous  events,  that  from  the  mem- 
ory drive 

Life's  common  cares,  and  those  alone 
survive. 

Mix  with  each  thought,  in  every  ac- 
tion share, 

Darken  eaih  dream,  and  blend  with 
every  prayer. 


[From  Thv  Library.] 

cosTRoyFnsiALisrs. 

AfiAlNsT  her  foes  Heligion  well  de- 
fends 
Her  sacred  truths,  lint  often  fears  her 

friemls; 
If  learned,  their  i>rii!e,  if  weak,  their 

zeal  she  dreads. 
And  their  hearts'  weakness  who  have 

soiuiib'sl  heads: 
Hut  most  she  feaix  the  controversial 

p-n, 
The  holy  strife  of  disjmlatious  men  ; 
Who  the  blest  (iospi-l's  peaceful  page 

explore. 
Only    to    light    against    its    precei)ls 

more. 


[From  Till  Lil>niry.] 
TO  (It  IT  I  (S. 

p'oKs  to  our  raci-I  it  »-ver  ye  have 
known 

.\  father's  fears  for  olTsj)ring  of  your 
own ; 

If  ever,  smiling  o'er  a  hieky  line, 

\'e  lliKiighl  the  sudden  senllment  di- 
vine. 

Then  paused  and  doidilecl.  .-ind  then 
tired  tif  doubt. 

With  ragiM' sudden  dashed  ihe.stan7-.a 
out;  — 


CRABBE. 


169 


]f,  after  foaring  iinicli  and  pausiiii; 
long. 

Ye  ventnrcil  on  tlie  world  your  la- 
bored song. 

And  fro'ni  the  crusty  critics  of  those 
days 

Implored  the  feeble  tribute  of  their 
praise, 

Kemember  now  the  fears  that  moved 
you  then. 

And,  spite  of  truth,  let  mercy  guide 
your  pen. 


[From  The  Library.] 
PHILOSOPHY. 

How  vice  and  virtue  in  the  soul 

contend ; 
How   widely   differ,  yet  how  nearly 

blend; 
What  various  passions  war  on  either 

part. 
And    now    confirm,    now  melt    the 

yielding  heart: 
EIow  Fancy  loves  around  the  world 

to  stray, 
Willie    .Judgment    slowly   picks   his 

sober  way; 
The    stores    of    memorj',    and    the 

flights  sublime 
Of  genius  bound  by  neither  space  nor 

time;  — 
All  these  divine  Philosophy  explores, 
Till ,  lost  in  awe,   she  wonders  and 

adores. 


fFram  The  Library.]     » 
THE    UNIVERSAL   LOT. 

Cakk  lives  with  all;  no  ndes,  no 

precepts  save 
The  wise  from  woe,  no  fortitude  the 

l)rave ; 
(irief   is   to   man    as   cerlain   as   the 

grave : 
remjiests  and  stoiins  in  life's  whole 

progress  rise, 


And  hope  shines  dimly  through  o'er- 

clouded  skies; 
Some  drops  of  comfort  on  the  favored 

fall, 
But  showers  of  sorrow  are  the  lot  of 

all : 
Partial  to  talents,  then,  shall  Heaven 

withdraw 
Th'  afflicting  rod,  or  break  the  general 

law?^ 
Shall  he  who  soars,  inspired  by  loftier 

views, 
Life's  little  cares  and  little  pains  re- 
fuse ? 
Shall  he  not  rather  feel  a  double  share 
Of  mortal  woe,  when  doubly  armed 

to  bear  ? 


{From  The  Library.] 

UNION    OF    FAITH    AND    REASON 
NECESSAIl  Y. 

WiiKN  first  Religion  came  to  bless 
the  land. 

Her  friends  were  then  a  firm  believ- 
ing band, 

To  doubt  was  then  to  plunge  in  guilt 
extreme, 

And  all  was  gospel  that  a  monk  could 
dream ; 

Insulted  Reason  fled  the  grovelling 
soul. 

For  Fear  to  guide,  and  visions  to  con- 
trol ; 

But  now,  when  Reason  has  assumed 
her  tiirone. 

She,  in  her  turn,  demands  to  reign 
alone ; 

Rejecting  all  that  lies  beyond  her 
view. 

And,  being  judge,  will  be  a  witness 
too: 

Insulted  Faith  then  leaves  the  doubt- 
ful mind. 

To  seek  the  truth,  without  a  power  to 
find: 

All!  when  will  both  in  friendly  beams 
unilc. 

And  pour  on  erring  man  resistless 
light? 


J  70 


CRAIK. 


\^From  The  Library. '\ 
BOOKS. 

But  what  strange  art,  what  magic 
can  dispose 

The  troubled  mind  to  change  its  na- 
tive woes  ? 

Or  lead  us  willing  from  ourselves,  to 
see 

Others  more  wretched,  more  undone 
than  we? 

This  HOOKS  can  do;  —  nor  this  alone; 
they  give 

New  views  to  life,  and  teach  us  how 
to  live; 


They  soothe  the  grieved,  the  stub- 
horn  they  chastise, 

Fools  they  adiiioni^h,  and  confirm 
the  wis,-: 

Their  aid  tlicy  yitlil  t<)all;tlu'y  never 

sillMl 

The  man  of  sorrow,  nor  tlie  wretch 

undone; 
I'lilike  the  hard,  the  selfish,  and  the 

proud, 
Tliey  lly  not  sullen  from  the  suppli 

ant  crowd ; 
Nor  tell   to    various  people  various 

thin.L's, 
But  show  to  subjects  what  they  show 

to  kings. 


Dinah    Mulock   Craik. 


GHEES  TUiSiis  (ii;otr/yu. 

Oh,   the  gn-en   lliinus  growing,   tin' 

green  things  growing. 
The  fainl  sweet    snnll   of   the  green 

things  growing! 
I  should  like  to  live.  wln-Iher  1  Muili' 

or  grieve. 
.Just  to  watch  Iln'  ha])py  lif(!  of  my 

green  things  growing. 

Oil.  llif  (luttt-ring  ami  the  pattering 

of  tho.M-  •.TiiH  tilings  growing! 
How  they  talk  t-arh   to  r:tcli,  when 

noiK-  of  us  iire  knowing; 
In  tin-  wonderful  white  of  tlie  weird 

moonlight 
Or  the  dim  dre.miy  dawn  when  tlir 

co<"ks  are  crowing. 

I  love,  I  love  tlnni  so, —  my  grriu 
things  growing! 

.And  I  tliink  that  liny  love  nn-,  with- 
out false  showing; 

For  by  many  a  temb-r  toueh,  lliey 
comfort  nif  so  much. 

With  tlic  soft  mule  coiiiforl  of  green 
tbinjjH  growing. 


.\nd  in  the  rich  store  of  their  blos- 
soms flowing 

'I'en  for  one  1  lake  they're  on  me  be- 
stowing- 

Oh,  1  should  like  to  see,  if  (Jod's  will 
il  may  !«', 

Many,  many  a  summer  of  my  green 
things  glowing! 

But  if  I  must  be  gathered  for  the  an- 
gels' sowing. 

Sleep  out  of  sight  awhile,  like  llu' 
green  things  growing. 

Though  ilusi  to  dust  reinrn,  1  think 
I'll  scarcely  mourii, 

If  I  may  change  into  green  things 
growiiiL'. 


.voir    .l\J>    M  I  h  liWAHDS. 

"  Two  hainis  npon  the  breast, 

And  labor's  done; 
Two  pale  feel  crossed  in  rest, — 
The  race  is  wrwi; 
'I'wo  eyes  willi  coin-weights  shut, 

.\nd  all  tears  cease; 


CRAIK. 


171 


Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 
Anger  at  peace;" 
So    pray   we    oftentimes,   mourning 

our  lot 
God  in  his  kindness  auswereth  not. 

"  Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Aye  for  His  praise; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest 

Walking  His  ways ; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above 
Through  all  their  tears; 
Two  lips  still  breathing  love, 
Not  wrath,  nor  fears;  " 
So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our 

knees ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers!  Father, 
hear  these! 


PLIGHTED. 

Mine  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  my 

beauty! 
Mine,   all   mine,   and   for  love,   not 

duty: 
Love  given  willingly,  full  and  free, 
Love  for  love's   sake, —  as   mine  to 

thee. 
Duty's  a  slave  that  keeps  the  keys, 
But  Love,  the  master,  goes  in  and  out 
Of  his  gooiUy  chambers  with  song 

and  shout, 
Just  as  he  please,  —  just    as    he 

please. 

Mine,  from  the  dear  head's  crown. 
l)rown-golden. 

To  llu>  silken  foot  that's  scarce  be- 
holden; 

Give  to  a  few  friends  hand  or  smile. 

Like    a    generous    lady,    now    and 
awhile, 
But  the  sanctuary  heart,  that  none 
dare  win. 

Keep  iiuliest  of  holiest  evermore; 

The  ciowd  in  the  aisles  may  watch 
the  (k)or. 
The  high-priest  oidy  enters  in. 

Mine,    my    own,    without   doubts  or 

terrors. 
With    all    thy    goodnesses,    all    thy 

errors, 


Unto  me  and  to  me  alone  revealed, 

''A    spring    shut     up,    a    fountain 
sealed." 
Many    may   praise    thee,  —  praise 
mine  as  thine, 

Many  may  love  thee, —  I'll  love  them 
too; 

But  thy  heart  of  hearts,  pure,  faith- 
ful, and  true, 
Must  be  mine,  mine  wholly,  and 
only  mine. 

Mine!— God,   I    thank    Thee    that 

Thou  hast  given 
Something   all    mine    on    this    side 

heaven : 
Something  as  nuich  myself  to  be 
As  this  my  soul  which  I  lift  to  Thee:" 
Flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone; 
Life   of  my  life,  whom  Thou  dost 

make 
Two  to  the  world   for  the   world's 

work's  sake, — 
But  each  mito  each,  as  in  Thy 

sight,  one. 


PHILII\  MY  KING. 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large   brown 
eyes. 

Philip,  my  king, 
Round  whom  the  enshadowing  pur- 
ple lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities; 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  love's  invisii)ie  .sceptre  laden 
1  am  thine  Esther  to  eouunand 
Till   thou  Shalt  find  a  queen-hand- 
maiden, 
Philip,  my  king. 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-woc 

ing, 
Philip,  my  king! 
When  those  l)eaut"ifiil  lips  are  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and 

there 
Sittest  love-glorified.     Pule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  tliy  kingdom  fair. 
For   we    that    love,    ah!   we  love  sc 

Ijllndly. 
Philip,  my  king. 


172 


riiAIK. 


Up  from  thy  swt^ot   moiitli. —  up  to 

tliy  brow. 

i'liili]),  my  kiiiul 
Tho  spirit    that    tliorc   lies   sU'cpini: 

now 
May  rise  liko  a  i,'iaiit  ami  iiiakc  iiu>n 

bow 
As   to  one   lipavcn-rhoscri   amongst 

liis  pt'crs: 
My  Saul,   than   thy  i)rethrpn  taller 

anil  fairiT 
\a'\.  mv  1k'1ii>1<1  I  lire  in  fntun'  yeai^s; 
Vet  thy  head  nct'dcih  a  circlet  rarer, 
I'liiiip,  my  king. 

—  A   wrcatli  not  of  gold,  i)Ut   i>;ilm". 

(Ml.'  day. 

I'bilip,  my  king, 
'I'iiou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a 

way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray: 
Kebcls  within  ilireanil  foes  witliout. 
Will  snatcli  at  thy  crown.    I'.ut  march 

on,  glorious. 
Martyr,    ytt    monarch:     till    angcK 

shout  |\  iciorioiis. 

As   thou   .sit'sl   at    the    fcit    of   (Jod 
"Philii>,  the  king!" 


ran  lath. 

Com.Dyoti  come  hack  tonn',  Douglas. 
Douglas. 
In  till'  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I    would    be   so    faillitul.    so   loving. 
Douglas. 
Douglas.  Douglas,  lender  ami  true. 

Never  a  scomfid  word  should  grievt- 
you, 
I'd  smile  on  you  sweet  lus  the  angels 
do;  - 
Sweet    as   your   smile   on   nie  shone 
ever. 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Oh,  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  Moid."- 

were  few. 

Do  you   know  the  truth  now  u|)  in 

leaven, 

Doll' I  I   .  DougliU,  tunder  and  triu;'.' 


I  never  was  wortliy  of  you,  Douglas; 

Not  half  uorlhy  the  like  of  you: 
Now  all  nun  beside  seem  to  me  like 
-liaiiow  -i, — 
I    love   yiiu.    Douglas,   tender  and 
true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Doug- 
las, Douglas, 
Droj>  forgiveness  from  heaven  like 
dew; 
As    I    lay   my   heart   on    your  dead 
heart.  Douglas. 
Douglas,  Doughus,  tender  and  true. 


ItKSICSlXG. 

('mi,lii;i:N,  that   laj  linir  i>retty  gar- 
lands by 
So    piii'ously,    yet    with    a    hiunble 

mind; 
Sailors,  who.  wln-n  their  ship  rocks 

in  the  wind. 
Cast  out  her  freight  with  half-averted 

eye, 
Kichcs  lor  life  exchanging  solemidy, 
[.est     liny    should    never    gjiln    the 

wished-for  shore;  — 
Thus  w<'.  ()  l-'atluT,  standing  Thee 

before. 
Do  lay  down  at  Thy  feet  without  a 

sigh 
Each  after  each  our  jireeious  things 

and  rare, 
Our  dear  heait-jewels  and  our  gar- 

hiiiils  fair. 
I'erhai)s  I'hou  knewest  that  tiu-llow- 

ers  would  die. 
And     I  he    Umg-voyaged     hoaixls    be 

found  bill  diisl : 
So  took'si    them,   while  unchanged. 

'1(1    riiee  we  trust 
l''or  incoriU|iiilile  In'asure:  Tlinii  ;irl 

just. 


MY  i.irri.i-:  hoy  tiim'  dif.d. 

I.ooii  at  his  pretty  face  for  just   one 
mii.iiie! 
Il's  l>i aided  frock  and  dainty  but/' 
toned  shoes; 


GRANGE. 


173 


His    finn-shtit    hand,    the    favorito 
plaything  in  it, — 
Then  lell  nie,  mothers,  was't  not 
hard  to  lose 
Ahd  miss  him  from  my  side, — 
My  h'  ,'f  boy  that  died  ? 

How  many  another  boy,  as  dear  and 
eharining,  |  delight, 

His  father's  hope,  his  mother's  one 
.Slips  through  strange  sicknesses,  all 
fear  disarming, 
And  lives  a  long,  long  life  in  par- 
ents' sight! 
Mine  was  so  short  a  pride ! 
And  then, —  my  poor  boy  died. 

I  see  him   rocking  on   his  wooden 

charger; 

I  hear  him  pattering  through  the 

.  house  all  day; 

I  watch  his  great  blue  eyes    grow 

large  and  larger,  |  or  gay, 

Listeui'ig  to  stories,  whether  grave 


Told  at  the  bright  fireside. 
So  dark  now,  since  he  died. 


But  yet  1  often  think  my  boy  is  liv- 
ing, 
As  living  as  my  other  children  are. 
When  good-night  kisses  I  all  round 
am  giving, 
I  keep  om;  for  him,  though  he  is 
so  far. 
Can  a  mere  grave  divide 
Me  from  him, —  though  he  died? 

So,  whil(^  I  come  and  plant  it  o'er 
with  daisies 
(Nothing   but   childish  daisies  all 
year  round), 
Continually  God's  hand  the  curtain 
raises. 
And  1  can  hear  his  meny  voice's 
sound. 
And  feel  hini  at  my  side, — 
My  little  boy  that  died. 


Christopher   Pearse  Cranch. 


A   THRUSH  IN  A   GILDED   CAGE. 

I/Tas  this  the  singer  I  had  heard  so 
long. 
But  never  till  this  evening,  face  to 
face? 
And  were  they  his,  those  tones  so 
unlike  song. 
Those    words    conventional     and 
commonplace  ? 

Those  echoes  of  the  usual  social  chat 
That  filled  with  noise  confused  the 
crowded  hall; 
That  smiling  face,  black  coat,   and 
white  cravat: 
Those  fashionable  manners, —  was 
this  all  ? 

He  glanced  at  freedmen,  oi)eras.  \)o\- 
itics, 
And   otht-r  cotnnion  topics  of   the 
day; 


But   not  one  brilliant  image  did  he 
mi  X 
With  all  the  prosy  things  he  had  to 
say. 

At  least  1  hoped  that  one  I  long  had 
known. 
In  the  inspired  books  th.ii  buili  his 
fame. 
Would    Itroatlie    some    word,    some 
symiiatlielic  tone. 
Fresh  from  the  ideal  region  whence 
he  came. 

And  so  I  leave  the  well-dresse.l.  buzz- 
ing crowd. 
And  vipnt  my  spleen  alone  liere  by 
my  tire; 
MoMrning  I  lie  fa<Ung  of  mv  iroMi'ii 
rl.)iid. 
Thf   ili-^apiiiiintmciU    of    my    liti''* 
desire. 


174 


CRANCH. 


Simple  enthusiast!  why  do  you  re- 
quire 
A  buddiiii;  rose  for  every  thorny 
stalk  ? 
^^^ly  must  we  poets  always  bear  the 
lyre 
Ami  sing,  wheu  fashion  forces  us 
to  talk  ? 

Only  at  moments  comes  the  muse's 
light. 
Alone,  like  shy  wood-thrushes,  war- 
ble W.'. 
Cateh  us  in  traps  like  this  dull  crowd 
to-night. 
We  are  but  plain,  brown-feathered 
birds,  you  see ! 


COMPENSA  TION. 

Tears  wash  away  the  atoms  in  the 
eye 
That  smarted  for  a  day ; 
Uain-clouds  liiat  si)<>il('il   the   splen- 
dors of  the  sky 
The  fields  with  flowers  array. 

No  chamber  of  pain  liut  has  .some 
hidden  door 

That  jiromises  ri'lcasc;  [store 

No  .solitude  so  drear  ))Ut   yields   its 

Of  thought  and  inward  peace. 

No  night  .so  wild  but  brings  the  con- 
stant Sim 
With  love  anil  power  untold; 
No  time  so  dark  but  through  its  woof 
tiiiTf  run 
Some  blesst^d  tlireads  of  gold. 

And  through  the  long  and  storm-tost 
centuries  burn 
In  ebanging  I'alm  and  strife 
Thi"  I'baros-ligbts  of  truth,  whi-rc'er 
\Nf  turn, — 
The  unipienched  lamps  of  life. 

O  Ixjve  supreme!  O  Providence  di- 

vini'! 
What  M-lf-adjusUng  springs 
( )f    law   and    life,    wliat   (!ven   scales. 

are  thine. 
What  sure-returning  wings 


Of  hopes  anil  joys  that  flit  like  birds 
away. 
When  chilling  atitumn  blows. 
Hut  come  again,  long  ere  the  buds  of 
May 
Their  rosy  lips  unclose! 

What   wondrous  play  of   mood   and 
accident 

Through  shifting  days  and  years; 
What  fresh  returns  of  vigor  oversjient 

In  feverish  dreams  and  fears! 

What   wholesome  air  of   conscience 
anil  of  thought 
When  doubts  and  forms  oppress; 
What  vistas  oju-ning  Ui  the  gates  we 
sought 
Heyond  the  wilderness; 

Beyond  the  narrow  cells  where  self- 
involved, 
Like  chrysalids,  we  wait 
The  unknown  births,  the  mysteries 
unsolved 
Of  ileath  and  change  and  fate! 

O  Light  divine!  we  need   no  fnllei 
test 
That  all  is  onlen-d  well; 
We  know  enough  to  trust  that   all  is 
best 
Where  Love  and  Wisdom  dwell. 


MF.MOIUM.    HALL. 

A.Min  the  elms  that  interlace 

Koimd     Harvard's    grounds    their 
liranches  tail. 
We  greet  no  walls  of  statt'lier  gnice 
Than   thine,   oiu°  proud   Memorial 
Hall! 

Tlirongh  arching  boughs  and  roofs  of 
gr.'cii 
Whose  da|iple<l  lights  and  shadows 
lie 
.Mong  the  turf  and  road,  is  seen 
i'liy  noble  fonu  against  the  sky. 


CRANCH. 


175 


And     miles     away,    on    fields    and 
streams, 
Or  where  the  woods  the   hilltop 
crown, 
The  monumental  temple  gleams, 
A  landmark  to  each  neighboring 
town. 

Nor  this  alone;  New  England  knows 
A  deeper  meaning  in  the  pride 

Whose  stately  architecture  shows 
How    Harvard's    children    fought 
and  died. 

Therefore  this  hallowed  pile  recalls 
The  heroes,  young  and  true  and 
brave. 
Who  gave  their  memories  to  these 
walls, 
Their    lives    to    fill    the    soldier's 
grave. 

The  farmer,  as  he  drives  his  team 
T(.  market  in  the  morn,  afar 

Beholds  the  golden  sunrise  gleam 
Uiion  thee,  like  a  glistening  star. 

And  gazing,  he  remembers  well 
Wny  stands  yon  tower  so  fair  and 
tall. 
IJiH  sons  perhaps  in  battle  fell ; 
For    him,    too,    shines    Memorial 
Hall. 

And  sometimes  as  the  student  glides 
Alongthe  winding '■"harlos,  anil  sees 

Across  the  flats  thy  glowing  sides 
Above  the  elms  and  willow-trees, 

Upon  his  oar  he'll  turn  and  pause, 
Kememboring  the  lieroic  aims 

Of  those  who  linked  their  country's 
cause 
In  deathless  glory  with  their  names. 

And  as  against  tlio  moonlit  sky 
The  shadowy  in;i  :s  looms  overhead, 

Well  may  we  linger  with  a  sigh 
Beneaih  the  tabU-ts  of  the  dead. 

The  snow-drifts  on   thy   roof    shall 
wreathe 
Their  crowns  of  virgin   white   for 
them ; 


The  whispering  winds    of   summer 
breathe 
At  morn  and  eve  their  requiem. 

For  them  the  Cambridge  bells  shall 
chime 

Across  the  noises  of  the  town ; 
The  cannon's  peal  recall  their  time 

Of  stern  resolve  and  brief  renown. 

Concord  and  Lexington  shall  still. 
Like  deep  to  deep,  to  Harvard  call: 

The  tall  gray  shaft  on  Bunker  Hill 
Speak  greetings  to  Memorial  Hall. 

Oh,  never  may  the  land  forget 
Her  loyal  sons  who  died  that  we 

Might  live,   remembering    still    out 
debt. 
The  costly  price  of  Liberty  1 


THOUGHT. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 
What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  arc;  spirits  clad  in  veils; 
Man  by  man  was  never  seen; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  kno\\Ti; 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart  though  seeming  near, 
In  our  light  we  scattered  lie; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

^\^lat  is  social  company 
But  a  baljbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 
But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 
Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 
Oidy  whc^n  we  live  above 
What     the     dim-eyed    world     liafli 
taught; 


1,7:6 


CUANVH. 


i>nly  when  our  souls  are  fod 

I5y  till'  fount  which  ijavo  them  hirth. 

And  by  inspiratiuu  h'd 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

Wp,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 
SwfJiin;,'  I  ill  tht-y  meet  and  riui, 
.Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


/   IX    TllKi:,  AS1>   TllOV   IX  ME. 

1  AM  but  clay  in  thy  hantls.  but  Thou 
art  the  all-loving  artist. 
Passive  I  lie  in  thy  sight,  yet  in  my 
selfhood  I  strive 
So  to  embody  the  life  and  the  love 
thou  ever  impartest. 
That  in  my  sphere  of  the  finite,  I 
may  be  truly  alive. 

KnowinLj  thou  needest  this  form,  as 
1  thy  divine  insjiiralion. 
Knowing  tliou  shapi-st  t  lie  clay  with 
a  \  ision  and  piu'pose  divine, 
ho  woultl  I  answer  each  touch  of  thy 
baud  in  iM  loving  creation, 
That  in  my  conscious  life  tiiy  pow- 
er <iud  beauty  may  shine, 

Uellecling  the  noble  intent  thou  hast 
in  forming  tiiy  creatures; 
Waking  from  sense  into  life  of  the 
soul,  and  the  image  of  lh(>e; 
Working  with  thee  in  thy  work  to 
model  hiunanity's  features 
Into  the  likeness  of   (Jod,   myself 
from  myself  I  would  free. 

One   will)   all    inuuan   e.xistence,   no 
one  above  or  below  me; 
Lit   by    thy    wisdom   ami  love,   ils 
roses  are  st^-eped  in  the  morn; 
(irowing  from  day  lo  a  statue,  from 
statue  to  llesh,  till  tliou  know 
me 
Wrought    into    manhood   celestial, 
and  in  Ibim;  image  re-i)oni. 

^>o  In  thy  love  will   I  trust,  bringing 
nu-  sooner  <»r  lali-r 
Past  the  dark  screen  that  (livides 
Ihe.HC  shows  of  the  finite  from 
thee. 


Thine,  thine  only,   this  warm,  dea: 
life.  ( )  loving  Cri'atorl 
Thine  the  invi.siblt;  future,  born  of 
the  present,  uuist  be. 


SOFT,  RliOU'X,  SMILISG   EYES. 

.Soi"T,  brown,  smiling  eyes. 

Looking  liack  Ilirough  years. 
Smiling  tjuoiigh  the  ndst  of  lime, 

Filling  miiu'  with  tears; 
(hi  this  sunny  morn. 

While  the  grape-blooms  swing 
In  the  scented  air  of  .linie, — 

Why  tlu'se  memories  bring? 

Silky  ripjiling  curls. 

Tresses  long  ago 
Laid  beneath  the  shaded  sod 

Where  the  \  ioiels  blow; 
\\  by  across  the  blue 

Of  the  jteerless  day 
Do  ye  droop  to  meet  my  own. 

Now  all  tmnetl  to  gray  ? 

\'oiee  whose  temler  tones 

lireak  in  sudden  mirth, 
IliMid  lar  itaek  in  lioyhood's  sjiring, 

Silent  now  on  earib  ; 
Wliv  so  sweei  and  cliitr, 

Willie  ilie  bird  ;ind  bee 
Fill  I  be  balmy  sinnmer  air. 

Come  your  tones  to  nie? 


wind, 
rill. 


.Sweet,  ah.  sw«'eter  far 

'I'han  yon  Ihrusb's  trill, 
Sadder,  sweeter  liian  ibe 

Woods,  or  murmurim; 
Spirit  words  and  song- 

( )'er  my  senses  cree]!. 
Do  1  bre.iilic  the  air  of  dreams' 

Do  I  wake  or  sleep  '.' 


Wiiv  was  I  born,  and  where  was  I 
Hefoie  tlii-  living  mystery 
That  weds  (be  bod>  lo  the  soul  ? 
NVhat  are  the  laws  i»y  w  hose  control 


CBANCH. 


117 


I  live  and  feel  and  think  and  know  ? 
What  tlie  allegiance  that  I  owe 
To  tides  beyond  all  time  and  space  ? 
What  form  of  faith  must  1  embrace  ? 
Why   thwarted,   starved,    and    over- 
borne 
By  fate, —  an  exile,  driven  forlorn 
By  fitful  winds,  where  each  event 
Seems  but  the  whirl  of  accident  ? 
Why  feel  our  wings  so  incomplete, 
Or,  flying,  but  a  plumed  deceit, 
Renewing  all  our  lives  to  us 
The  fable  old  of  Icanis  ? 

Tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  breath 
That  whispers  from  the    house    of 

death. 
That    chills    thought's    metaphysic 

strife, 
That  dims  the  dream  of  After-life. 
Why,  if  we  lived  not  ere  our  birth, 
Hope  for  a  state  beyond  this  earth  ? 
Tell  me  the  secret  of  the  hope 
That  gathers,  as  we  upwards  ope 
The  skylights  of  the  prisoned  soul 
Unto  the  perfect  and  the  whole ; 
Yet  why  the  loveliest  things  of  earth 
Mock  in  their  death   their  glorious 

birth. 
Why,  when  the  scarU't  sunset  floods 
The  west  beyond  the  hills  and  woods, 
Jr  June  with  roses  crowds  my  porch. 
Or    northern    lights    with    crimson 

torch 
Illume  the  snow  and  veil  the  stars 
With  streaming  bands  and  wavering 

bars. 
Or  music's  sensuous,  soul-like  wine 
Intoxicates  with  trance  divine. — 
Why  then  must  sadness  like  a  thief 
Steal  my  aromas  of  belief. 
And  like  a  cloud  that  shuts  the  day 
At  sunrise,  turn  my  gold  to  gray  V 

Tell  me  why  instincts  meant  for  good 
Turn  to  a  madness  of  the  blood; 
And,  ballling  all  our  morals  nice, 
Nature  seems  nearly  one  with  vice; 
What  sin  and  misery  mean,  if  blent 
Willi  good  in  one  divine  intent. 
Why   fn)m   such    source    must    evil 

sprin-.:. 
And  tinile  si  ill  m.-an  suffering'.' 


Look  on  the  millions  born  to  blight; 
The  souls  that  pine  for  warmth  and 

light: 
The  cruslied  and  stifled  swarms  that 

pack 
The  foul  streets  and  the  alleys  black. 
The  miseral)le  lives  that  crawl 
Outside  the  grim  partition  wail 
'Twixt  rich  and  poor,  'twixt  foul  and 

fair, 
'Twixt  vaulting  hope  and  lame  de- 
spair. 
On  that  wall's  sunny  side,  within. 
Hang   rii)ening   fruits    and    tendrils 

green, 
O'er  garden-beds  of  bloom  and  spice. 
And  perfume  as  of  paradise, 
'j'here  happy  children  lun  and  talk 
Along  the  shade-flecked  gravel-walk, 
And  lovers  sit  in  rosy  bowers. 
And  nuisi"  overflows  the  hours. 
And  wealth    and   health   and  mirth 

anil  books 
Make  pictures  in  Arcadian  nooks, 
r.ul  on  that  wall's  grim  outer  stones 
The    fierce     north-wind    of    winter 

groans ; 
Through   blinding  dust,   o'er    bleak 

highway. 
The  slant  sun's  melancholy  ray 
Sees  stagnant    pool    aiid    poisonous 

weed. 
The  hearts  that  faint,  the  feet  that 

bleed. 
The    grovelling    aim,    the    flagging 

faith. 
The   starving    curse,    the   drowning 

death ! 

O  wise  philosopher!  you  soothe 

Our  troubles  with  a  touch  too 
smooth. 

Too  plausilily  your  reasonings  come. 

They  will  not  guide  me  to  my  home; 

They  lead  me  on  a  little  way 

Through  meadows,  grove.*,  and  gar- 
dens gay. 

Until  a  wall  siiuts  out  my  day. — 

A  screen  whose  top  is  hid  in  clouds. 

Whose  base  is  deep  on  dead  men's 
shrouds. 

Could  I  ilive  under  jiain  and  death. 

Or  mount  and  breathe  the  whole 
heaven's  breath. 


178 


CROLi: 


I  might  begin  to  comprehentl 
How  the  Beginning  joins  the  End. 


We  agonize  in  doubt,  perplexed 
O'er  fate,  free-will,  and  Hllile-text. 
In  vain.     The  spirit  finds  no  \ent 
From  out  the  imprisoning  tempera- 
ment. 


Therefore   I   bow   my  spirit   to   the 

Power 
lliat  underflows  and  fills  my  little 

hoiu-. 
I  feel  the  eternal  symi>honY  afli>at. 
In  wliich  I  am  a  breath,  a  passing 

note. 
I  may  be  but  a  dull  and  jarriiii;  nerve 
In  the  great  body,  yet  sonu*  end  I 

serve. 

Yea,  thouiili  I  dnam  and  question 
still  the  dream 

Thus  floating  by  me  upon  Being's 
stream. 

Some  end  I  serve.  Love  reigns.  I 
••annot  lo.se 

'i"hr  Primal  I.iiiht.  though  thousand- 
fold its  hues. 


I  can  believe  that  somewhere    rrulli 

abides; 
Not    in    the   ebb  and   (low   of   thosi! 

small  tides 
That   float  the  dogmas  of  our  saints 

and  sects; 
Not  in  a  thousantl  lainted  dialeets. 
But  in  tbe  one  pure  lanixmige.  eould 

we  hear. 
That  fdls  with  love  and  light  the  ser 

aphs'  sphere. 
I  can  believe  there  is  a  f'ontral  (Jooil. 
That  bmiis  and  shines  o"er  tempera- 

mi-iit  and  mnoil ; 
That  somewhere  (.iod  will   melt  the 

clouds  away. 
And    his    great    purpose    shine    as 

shines  the  day. 
Then  may   we   know    why   nnw    we 

could  not  know; 
Why  the  great  Isis-curtain  droopeil 

so  low; 
Why  we  were  blindfold  on  a  iiatb  of 

light; 
Why  came  wild  gleams  and  voices 

throuiih  till'  night ; 
Why  we  seemi'd  drifting,  storm-tost. 

without  rest. 
And  were  but  rocking  on  a  mother's 

breast. 


George  Croly. 


EVEN/XO. 

WiiKN  t've  is  ]»urpling  cliff  and  rave. 
Th<)iii;lils  of  the  heart,  how  soft  ye 

flow : 

\ol  softer  on  the  wi  stern  wave 
The  golden  lines  of  sim.sel  glow. 

Then  all,  by  chance  or  fate  removed. 
Like  spirii.s  crowd  upon  liie  eye; 

The  few  we  liked  —  tbe  one  we  loved  I 
And  the  wholi!  heart  is  mcn\t)ry. 

And  lifi-  is  like  a  fading  (lower, 
lla  lieauly  dying  as  we  gaze; 

Yet  a.«  tile  sbailnws  round  us  lorn-, 
ileaven    pours    above    ii    brighter 
;laie. 


When    morning  sheds    its  gorgeous 
dye. 
Our  hope,  our  heart,   to  earth   is 
given: 
Put  ilark  ami  lonely  is  the  eye 
That  tiuus  not ,  a{  its  eve,  to  heavea 


cri'iii  (;i:i>u'\  cAnFFi'L. 

TllKUK  was  once  a  gentle  time 

Wbi'n  till'  world  was  in  its  prime; 

And  every  day  was  holiday. 

.\nil  every  month  was  lovely  .May 

( °u|)id  then  had  inil  lo  go 

With  bi.s  purple  wings  and  bow; 


CROWNS  —  CUNNINGHAM. 


179 


And  in  blossomed  vale  and  grove 
Every  shepherd  knelt  to  love. 
Then  a  rosy,  dimpled  cheek, 
And  a  blue  eye,  fond  and  meek; 
And  a  ringlot-wreathen  brow. 
Like  liyarlnths  on  a  bed  of  snow: 
And  a  low  voice,  silver  sweet, 
From  a  lip  without  deceit; 
Only  these  the  hearts  could  move 
Of  the  simple  swains  to  love. 

But  that  time  is  gone  and  past, 
Can  the  sunmier  always  last  ? 
And  the  swains  are  wiser  grown, 
And  the  heart  is  tm^ned  to  stone, 


And  the  maiden's  rose  may  wither; 
Cupid's  fled,  no  man  knows  whither 
r.ut  another  Cupid's  come. 
With  a  brow  of  care  arid  gloom: 
Fixed  upon  the  eailhly  mould, 
Tliinking  of  the  sullen  gold; 
In  his  hand  the  bow  no  more. 
At  his  back  the  household  store, 
That  the  bridal  gold  must  buy: 
Useless  now  the  smile  and  sigh; 
l]ut  he  wears  the  pinion  still, 
Flying  at  the  siglit  of  ill. 

Oh,  for  the  old  true-love  time. 
When  the  world  was  in  its  prime! 


John   Crowne. 

WISHES  FOR   ODSCUniTY. 


How  miserable  a  thing  is  a  great 


Take    noisy   vexin; 
that  please; 


greatness    they 
I  ease. 


Oh,  wretched  he  who,  called  abroad 

by  power. 
To  know  himself  can  never  find  an 

hour! 


Give  me  obscure  and  safe  and  silent '  Strange  to  himself,  but  to  all  others 
Acquaintance  and  commerce  let  me  i  known, 

have  none  j  Lends  eveiy  one  his  life,   but  uses 

With  any  powerful   thing  but  time  i  none; 

alone:  'So.  ere  he  tasted   life,  to  death   he 

My  rest  let  Time  be  fearful  to  offend,  goes. 

And  creep  by  me  as  by  a  slumbering   And  himself  loses    ere    himself    he 

friend';  ^  !  knows. 


ALLAN   Cunningham. 


THOU  HAST  SWORN  liY  TIIY  CI  Of). 

Tiiovt  hast  sworn  by  tliy  God,  my 
.Teanie, 
By  tliat  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine. 
And  by  a'  the  lowing  stars  iu  heaven, 

Thai  Ihou  wad  aye  be  nune; 
And   I  liae  sworn  by  my  CJod,   my 
.leanie. 
And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine. 
By  a'    the    stars    sown    thick    owre 
heaven. 
That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine. 


Til  en  foul  fa'  the  hands  that  wad 
loose  sic  bands. 
An'    the  heart  that  wad  part  sic 
luve; 
But  there's  nae  hand  can  loose  my 
band. 
But  the  linger  o'  God  abuve. 
Though  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be 
my  bield. 
And  my  daithing  e'er  so  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i'  the  faulds  o' 
Ifive, 
''■^aven's  aiiut'u'  o'  my  Jean. 


180 


CUXNlXniLUf. 


IltT  wliitc  arm  wad  bo  a  i>iIlo\v  for  in»' 

Far  ^aftiT  tlian  tin-  ddwn; 
Ami   luvf   wad    wiiincnv  owie  us  liis 
kind,  kind  wint;.s, 
An'  swootly  IM  slwp,  an'  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o'  my 
lave, 
Convi'  licre,  and  kneel  wi'  me! 
The  morn  is  fu'   o'   the  presence  o' 
(Jod, 
An'  1  canna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn-wind  is  sweet  "many  tlic 
beds  o'  new  flowers. 
The  wee  birds  sing  kindliean'  hie; 
Our  gudfinan   ii-ans  owre  liis  kale- 
yard dyke. 
And  a  bliiln"  auld  bodie  is  he. 
The  beuk  maun   l)e  taen  when  the 
earle  comes  hame. 
Wi'  the  holie  i)salmodie; 
Anil  thou  maiui  speak  o'   me  to  thy 
<;od. 
And  I  will  speak  o'  thee. 


.s7//;'.s  nixp:  to  nirr/.L  /.v 
///•;.//  /•;.v. 

Siik'>' liane  to  dwall   in   licaven,    my 
lassie. 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven: 
Ye' re  owre). me.  (|uo'  tlu;  voice  o'  God, 

For  dwaliin;;  out  o"  lu-aven! 

(),  wliat'ii  she  do  in  Inavi-n,  my  las- 
si.-  ? 
().  wliat'll  she  do  in  licavcn  ? 
She'll  mix  her  ain  thi>u',dits  \\V  nu- 
Kcls'  sangs. 
An'    make    them    mair   meet   for 
htuiven. 

She  was  bidovi-d  by  a',  my  lassie, 

SIh'  «as  brlovi'd  by  a' ; 
Hut  an  anu'i  I  fell  in  love  wi'  her. 

An'  loi>k  her  frae  us  a". 

Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 

Low  then-  lbi»u  lies, 
A   Ixiimi"  I-   fiiiui  ne'er  w«'ut  to  the 
yinl. 

Nor  fra  it  will  arise! 


Vn'  soon  I'll  follow  thee,  my  lassie. 

Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee; 
Thou  left  me  naujjht  to  covet  ahin' 

IJut  took  j;udeness  sel'  wi'    .lee. 

1  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my 
lassie, 

I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face; 
Thou  seemed  a  liiy  mw  (  ul  i"  the  lud, 

An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my 
lassie, 
1  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye; 
An'    a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  o' 
heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  m) 
lassie. 
Thy  lii>s  were  ruddy  and  calm; 
JJut  gaue  was  the  holy  breath  o'  heav- 
en, 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine, 
lassie. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine; 
My  saul's  wi'  tliee  i'  the  cauld  gnive. 

.Vn'  why  should  1  stay  behin'  ? 


A    HET  SHEET  ASD   A   FLOWISd 
SEA. 

\   WK.r  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,. 

A  \\  iiiil  that  frdlows  fast. 
.And  mis  the  while  and  rustling  sail, 

And  i)cnds  the  gallant  mast  — 
And  b.  lids  the  gallant  mast,  iii\  boys 

While,  like  iheeagl.'  free, 
.\\vay  I  lie  goiid  ship  flies,  and  leaver 

Old  Fnglanil  on  our  lee. 

"()  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind!" 

I  bi-aiil  a  fair  one  cry: 
liiil  gi\e  '(1  uie  the  swelling  breeze, 

.\nd  will :e  waves  heaving  high, — 
The  white  waves  heaving  high,  mj 
lads. 

TIk'  g..nd  ship  light  and  free- 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  m<'n  are  we. 


CURTrS'-DANA. 


18) 


George   William    Curtis 


MAJOii  AM)  Miyon. 

A  uiKi)  sang  sweet  ami  strong 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree; 

He   sang,  —  *•  1  poiu-  out  my  soul  in 
song 
For  the  summer  that  soon  shall  be." 

But  deep  in  the  sliady  wood 
Anotlier  bird  sang,  —  •'  1  pour 

My  soul  on  ilie  soIlmuu  solitudi; 
For  the    springs    that    return    no 
more."" 


EGYI>T[AX  SERENADE. 

SiN<i  again  the  song  you  sung, 
When  we  were  together  young - 
When  tliere  were  l)Ut  you  ;wi  1  1 
Underneath  tlie  summer  sky. 


Sing  the  song,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Though  I  know  that  nevermore 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young 


MUSIC  lA'    THE  AIR. 

Oil,  listen  to  the  howling  sea. 

That  beats  on  the  remoi-seless  shore; 

Oil,  listen,  for  thai  sound  shall  be. 
When  our  wild  hearts  shall  beat  no 
more. 

Oh,  listen  well,  and  listen  long! 

For,  silting  folded  close  to  me, 
Vou  could  not  hear  a  sweeter  song 

Than  that  hoarse  murmur  of  the 
sea. 


Richard   Henry   Dana. 


Tim  HUSnAXD   AND    WIFE'S 
GRA  VE. 

HisBAND  and  wife !  no  converse  now 
ye  hold, 

.Vs  once  ye  did  in  your  young  days  of 
love. 

On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  de- 
lays. 

Its  silent  meditations  and  glad  hopes. 

Its  fears,  impatience,  (piiet  symi>a- 
tliies; 

Xor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and 
bliss 

Full,  certain,  and  possessed.  Domes- 
tic cares 

Call  vou  not  now  together.  Earnest 
'  talk 

On  M  hat  your  children  may  be,  moves 
you  not. 

Ye  lie  in  silence,  ami  an  awful  silenee; 

Not  like  to  that  in  which  ye  rested 
once 

Most  happy, — silence  elofjuent,  when 
heart 


With   heart   held   speech,  and   yoiur 

mysterious  frames, 
Harmoiuous.  sensitive,  at  every  beat, 
Touched  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

A  .stillness  deep, 
Insensible,     luiheeding,    folds    you 

round, 
.Vnd  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  sealed 

you  in: 
.\  w  a\  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest, 
iu   ali    the   nearness  of  the  narrow 

tond), 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence 

now ;  — 
Dread    fellowship  !  —  together,    yet 

alone. 

Why  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this 

lomi)'.' 
What  holds  it?     Dust  that  cumbered 

I  hose  I  mourn. 
They   shook    il    olT,    and    laid    aside 

earth's  robes, 


182 


DANA. 


And  put  on  tlio.s«-  of  light.     They're 

t;ont'  to  dwell 
In  lovf, — their  (Jod's  and    angels'! 

.Mutual  love, 
That    bound    ilieni    heie,   no   longer 

needs  a  speech 
For  full  coinnnuiion ;  nor  sensations, 

St  rong. 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive 

in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind 

in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that 

rise  in  each 
By  natures  new,  impart  themselves, 

though  silei;t. 
Each   r|uickening  sense,  each  throb 

of  holy  love, 
Affections    sanctified,    and    the    full 

glow  [one. 

Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden 
By  union  all  mysterioius,  thrill  and 

live 
In   both   immortal   frames:  —  sensa- 
tion all. 
And    thought,    pervading,    mingling 

sense  and  thought  I 
\e  paired,  yet  o\w\  wrapt  in  a  con- 
sciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single,  —  this  is  love, 

this  life! 


TIIK  son.. 

COMK.  brother,  turn  with  ine  fmui 

pining  tlioiiglii 
And  all  the  inward  ills  that  sin  has 

wrought; 
Come,  send  abroad  a  love  for  all  wlm 

live. 
And  feel  the  deep   eoutent    In    liuii 

they  give. 
KiUfl  wishes  and   good    deeds,  —  lliey 

make  not  poor; 
They  Ml  home  .igain,  full  laden,  to  i  by 

door; 
The  slrcanui  of  love  flow  back  when- 

they  begin. 
For  springs  of  outward  joys  lie  deep 

within. 
Even  let  I  hern  lluw,  and  make  the 

places  glad 


Where    dwell    thy    fellow -men.— 
Shouldst  thou  be  .sad. 

.\nd  earth  .seiui  bare,  and  hours,  once 
hai)py,  pre.ss 

Upon  thy  i bought s,  and   make   thy 
loneliness 

More  lonely  for  the  past,  thou  then 
shalt  hear 

The  nuisic  of  tho.se  waters  rannin<? 
near: 

And  thy  I'aiutspirit  drink  the  cooling 
stream. 

Anil  thine  eye  gladden  with  the  play- 
ing beam 

That  now  ui)ori  the  water  dances,  now 

Leaps  up  and  dances  in  the  hanging 
bough. 
Is  it  not  lovelv?     Tell  me,  where 
doth  dwelf 

The  power  that  wrought  so  beautiful 
a  spell? 

In  thine  own  bosom,  brother?  Then 
as  thine 

(iuard  with  a  reverent  fear  this  power 
divine. 
And  if.  indeed,  'tis  not  the  out- 
ward state. 

But  temper  of  the  soul  by  which  we 
rate 

.badness  or  joy,  even   let  thy  Ikjsoui 

Mlo\t' 

With  noble  thoughts  and  wak<'  tlm- 

\\\U>  love; 
.\nd  let  each  feeling  in  thy  breast  be 

given 
Au  liiiiiest  aim,  which,  sanctifletl  by 

Heaven, 
.\nd  springing  iiiloact,  new  life  im- 

])arts. 
Till  beats  thy  frame  a.s  with  a  thou- 

sauil  hearts. 
Sin  eloiuls  the  mind's  clear  visior 

from  its  birth, 
.\round     the    .self-starved    scjul    has 

s]iread  a  dearth. 
The  earth  is  full  of  life;   the  living 

Maud 
Touched  it  with  life;  and  all  its  forms 

eNpatnl 
With  priiK'iples  of  being  made  to  suit 
Mali's  varied  powers  and   raise  him 

ftoMI  the  Itrute. 

.\nd  sliall  the  earth  of  higher  emls  bti 
full.  — 


DEM  ARE  ST. 


183 


Earth  which  thou  tread' st,  — and  thj' 

))oor  mind  be  dull  ? 
rhou  talk  of  life,  with  half  thy  soul 

asleep  ? 
Thou  ".living  dead  man,"    let  thy 

spirit  leap 
Forth  to  the  day,  and  let  the  fresh 

air  blow 
Through  thy  soul's  shut-up  mansion. 

Wouldst  thou  know 
Something  of  \\  Iiat  is  life,  shake  off 

this  death;  (breath 

Have    thy    soul    feel    the    universal 
With  which  all  nature's  quick,  and 

learn  to  be  [see; 

Sharer  in  all  that  thou  dost  touch  or 


Break  from  thy  body's  grasp,  thy 
spirit's  trance; 

Give  thy  soul  air,  tliy  faculties  ex- 
panse ; 

Love,  joy,  even  sorrow, — yield  thy- 
self to  all ! 

They  make  thy  freedom,  groveller, 
not  thy  thrall. 

Knock  off  tlie  shackles  which  thy 
spirit  bind 

To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large 
the  mind! 

Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's 
great  whole. 

And  be  like  man  at  first,  a  living 
soul. 


Mary  Lee  Demarest. 


MY  AIX  COUNTREE. 

I'm  far  frae  my  hame,  an'  I'm  weary 

aftenwhilps. 
For  the  langed-for  hame-bringing,  an' 

my  Father's  welcome  smiles; 
I'll  ne'er  be  fu'  content,  until  mine 

een  do  see 
The  shining  gates  o'  heaven,  an'  mine 

ain  countree. 

Vhe  earth  is  flecked  wi'  flowers,  mony- 

tinted,  fresh,  an'  gay. 
The  birdies  warble  blithely,  for  my 

Father  made  them  sae ; 
But  these  sights  and  these  soun's  will 

as  napthing  be  to  me, 
When  1  hear  the  angels  singing  in  my 

ain  countree. 

I've  his  gude  word  of  promise  that 

some  gladsome  day,  the  King 
To  his  ain  royal  palace  his  banished 

hame  will  bring  : 
Wi'  een  an  wi'  liearts  runnin'  owre, 

we  shall  see 
The  King  in  his  beauty  in  our  ain 

countr(>e. 

My  sins  hae  been  mony,  an'  my  sor- 

r()\\s  liae  been  sair, 
But  tlicre  they'll  never  vex  mo,  nor 

be  remembered  mair; 


His  bluid  has  made  me  white,  his 
hand  shall  diy  mine  e'e. 

When  he  brings  me  hame  at  last,  to 
my  ain  countree. 

Like  a  bairn  to  its  mither,  a  wee 

liirdie  to  its  nest, 
I  wad  fain  be  ganging  noo,  unto  my 

Saviour's  breast: 
For  he  gathers  in  his  bosom,  witless, 

worthless  lambs  like  me, 
An'  carries  them  hinisel'  to  his  ain 

countree. 

He's  faithfu"   that   hath    promised, 

he'll  surely  come  again. 
He'll  keep  his  tryst  wi"  me.  at  what 

hour  I  (linna  ken; 
But  he  bids  me  still  to  wait,  and  ready 

aye  to  be 
To  gang  at  any  moment  to  my  ain 

countree. 

So  I'm  watching  aye  an'  singin'  o'  my 
hame  as  I  wait. 

For  llie  souning  o"  his  footfa'  this 
side  the  shining  gate; 

(Jod  gie  his  grace  to  ilk  ane  wha  lis- 
tens not)  to  me, 

That  we  a'  may  gang  in  gladness  to 
our  ain  countree 


IH4 


DE    VEliE. 


Sir  Aubrey   De  Vere. 


MISSPBNT  TIME. 

TnEUK  is  no  remedy  for  time  mis- 
spent ; 
N'u  iiealing  for  the  waste  of  idleness, 
Whose  verj'    languor    is   a   piiuish- 

nient 
Heavier  than  active  souls  can  feel  or 

guess. 
()  hours  of  indolence  and  discontent, 
Not  now  to  1)0  redeenit'd  I  ye  sting  not 

less 
Because  1  know  this  span  of  lift'  was 

lent 
For  lofty  duties,  not  for  selfislun-ss.  — 
Not   to  he  whilcd   away   in   aimless 

dreams. 
But  to  improve  ourselves,  and  st-rve 

mankind. 
Life  and  its  choicest  faculties  were 

given. 
Man  should  he  ever  hotter  than  l;o 

seems, 
And  shape  his  acts,  anil   discipline 

his  mind. 
To  walk  adorninjj  earth,  with  hope 

of  heaven.  ' 


(•OLVMIiL'.<i. 

Hk  was  a  inan  whom  danger  could 
not  daunt,  |<luo, 

Nor  sophistry  peri>Iox,  nor  i>r.in  sul> 

A  stoic,  reckless  of  the  world's  \aii! 
taunt. 

And  steeled  the  paih  of  honor  to  pin- 
sue; 

So,  when  hy  all  deserted,  still  he 
knew 

How  host,  to  soothe  the  heart-sick, 
or  confront 

Sedition,  schooled  with  eiiual  eye  t(i 
view 

The  frowns  of  grief,  and  the  l)a^^' 
|ianu-i  of  want. 

But  when  he  siiw  that  proniiscd  l:tu<i 
arise 

In  all  its  rare  ami  bright  varieties, 

jiovelier  than  t'oinlesl  fancy  exeitrtu! ; 

'I'hcM  sot'leniuL'  nature  melted  in  liis 


lie    knew    his    fame    was    full,    ami 

lilesscd  his  (iod; 
.\nd  fell  upon  his  face,  and  kissed 

the  \  irgin  sod  I 


Aubrey  Thomas   De  Vere. 


{Frcm  The  Poetic  F'tntlti/.] 
roWKIi   OF  roHSY. 

Mv  grief  or  ndrlh 

Attuiii's  the  earth, 
1  'larni'iui/.e  the  world! 

Kenmle^t  limes 

Ami  uufrieiHlly  cliuies 
In  my  song  lie  clasped  and  ciulcd  I 

When  an  arm  (o<»  strong 

Does  llie  p(i<»r  man  wnmg 
I  shoni,  and  he  hursts  his  chain: 

But  at  my  eommani 

lie  'h'ojis  ihe  hraU'l ; 
\nd  I  diu  ^is  lie  lliii'^s  •li..  L'c.ln 

Tin-  love  I    liaw  neai 

The  lost  ap|M*ar; 


I  sweeten  the  mourner's  sigh: 

At  my  vesper  lay 

The  gales  of  day 
('lose  hack  with  hirniony. 

No  [ilaiiis  I  reap, 

1  fi.i  I  no  shee|) 
Vet  my  home  is  on  every  shore: 

My  fancies  1  wing 

^^'illl  (he  plumes  of  spring. 
And  \«>.\age  the  roiuid  earth  o'er. 

In  Ihe  li:.dit  I  wield 

Nor  sword  nor  shield, 
But  my  voice  like  a  lance  makosway 

No  crown  I  hear, 

Bui  the  heails  thai  wear 
Earth"'  -•ioah..  my  wonl  obey. 

Through  .111  age's  night 

I  fling  the  liglit 


DK    VERE. 


185 


Of  my  brow  —  An  Argo  soon 
From  her  pine-wootl  leaps 
On  the  unLracked  deeps; 

And  the  dark  becomes  as  noon. 


THE  ANGELS  KISS  HER. 

The  angels  kiss  her  while  she  sleeps, 
And  leave  their  freshness  on  her 
breath : 
Star  after  star,  descenrlins:,  peeps 

Along  her  loose  hriir,  dark  as  death, 
From   his   low   nest    the  night-wiiKl 
creeps. 
And  o'er  her  bosom  wandereth. 

Tis  moi-ning:  in  their  pure  embrace 
The  aii-s  of  dawn  their  playmate 
greet : 

Dusk  fields  expect  their  wonted  grace, 
Those  silken  touches  of  swift  feet: 

With  songs  the  birds  salute  her  face; 
And  Silence  doth  her  voice  entreat ! 


BENDING  BFTU'EEN  ME  AND  THE 
TAPEU. 

Bkndixo  between  me  and  the  taper 
While  o'er  the  harp  her  white  hands 
sti-ayed. 

The  shadows  of  her  waving  tresses 
Above  my  hand  were  gently  swayed. 

With  every  graceful  movement  wa\  - 

iiig. 
I  marked  their  undulating  swell: 
[  matched  them  while  they  met  and 
parted, 
Curled  close  or  widened,  rose  or  fell. 

.  laughed  in  triumph  and  in  pleasure. 

So  strange  the  si)ort,  so  undesigned ! 

'iLiiv  mother  turned,  and  asked  me 

gravi-ly. 
'What  thought  was  passing  through 
my  mindj"' 

'Tis  Love  that  blinds  the  eys  of 
mothers! 
'Tis  hove  !hat  makes  the  young 
maids  fair! 


.She  touched  my  hand ;  my  rings  sh« 
coiuited  — 
Yet  never  felt  the  shadows  therf ! 

Keep,  gamesome  Love,  beloved  in 
fant! 

Keep  ever  thus  all  mothers  blind . 
And  make  thy  dedicated  virgins 

In  substance  as  in  shadow  kind '. 


HAPPY  A  HE  r:'Ey. 

ilAiTV  are  they  who  kiss  thee,  moii. 

and  even. 
Parting  the  hair  upon  thy  forehead 

while: 
For  them  the  sky  is  bluer  and  more 

bright, 
And  purer  their  thanksgivings  rise  to 

Heaven. 
Happy  are  they  to  whom  thy  songs 

are  given; 
Happy  are  they  on  whom  tliv  hands 

alight: 
.Vnd    happiest    they  for   whom   thy 

prayei's  at  night 
In  tender  piety  so  oft  have  striven. 
Away  with  vain  regrets  and  selfish 

sighs  — 
I'^ven  1,  ileiir  friend,  am  k    sly,  not 

unblcst; 
Permitted  sometimes  on  that  form  to 

gaze, 
<  )r  feel  the  light  of  those  consoling 

eyes  — 
If   but  a  moment  on   my  cheek  it 

stays 
I  know  that  gentle  beam  from  all  the 

rest! 


AFFLICTION. 

Count  each  affliction,  whether  light 

or  grave, 
Ood's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee. 

Do  thou 
With  courtesy  receive  him:  rise  and 

liow : 
And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  thresb 

old,  crave 


186 


DE    VERE. 


Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to 

lave. 
Then  lav  before  him  all  thou  hast. 

Allow 
No  cloiul  of   passion  to  usurp   thy 

llldW, 

Or  mar  thy  hospitality;  no  wave 

Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness.  Grief 

should  In- 
Like  joy.  majestic,  equable,  sedate; 
Coulirmiiiii,  cleansing,  raisiuij,  mak- 

iuii  free; 
Strong  to  consume  small  troubles;  to 

commend 
Great     thoughts,     grave     thoughts, 

thoughts  lasting  to  the  end. 


nEATITL'Di:. 

Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  trod  the 

ways 
Of  secular  deliglits;  nor  learned  the 

lore 
Whii'h  loftier  minds  are  studious  to 

abhor. 
Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  sought  the 

praise 
That  perishes,  the  rapture  that  be- 
trays: 
Who  hath  uol  spent  in  Time's  vain- 
glorious war 
His  youth:  and  foiuid,  a  school-boy 

al  fourscore. 
How  fatal  are  those  victories  which 

raise 
Their    iron    troi)hie3   to  a  temple's 

height 
On  trampled  Justice:  who  desires  not 

bliss. 
But  jieace:  and  yet  when  siiiinuoiicd 

to  the  light, 
Coudtats  as  one  who  eojubats  in  the 

sight 
Of  (ioil  ami  of  His  angels,  seeking 

this 
Alone,  how  best,  to  glorify  the  Right. 


Illh:    M()(>/>   or  I.XM.TATIOS. 

What  man  <an   hear  sweet  soundH 

an  I   Ircad  (<>  db- ? 
O  for  a  music  thai  mi;^hl  last  forevcrl 


Abounding  from  its  sources  like  a 
river 

Which  through  the  dim  lawns  streams 
eternally! 

\irtue  miulil  then  uplift  her  crest  on 
higli, 

Spurning  those  myriad  bonds  that 
fret  and  grieve  hei : 

Then  all  the  i)owers  of  hell  would 
(|uake  and  (|uiver 

llcfore  the  ardors  of  her  awftil  eye. 

.\las  for  man  with  all  his  high  de- 
sires, 

.\nd  inward  j>romptings  fading  day 
by  day  f 

High-titled  honor  pants  while  ii  ex- 
pires. 

And  cla\-born  gloiy  turns  again  to 
clay. 

\a)\\  instincts  last:  our  great  resolves 
pass  by 

Like  winds  wliose  loftiest  piean  ends 
but  in  a  sigh. 


ALL  riiiMis  sir/:/:/'  it  ///■:. \ 

/'/UZHD. 

Saii  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Cnuidiling  awav    beneath   our   very 

feet : 
Sad  is  our  life,  foi  onwaiil  it  is  flow- 
ing 
In  current   unpcreeivcd,  because  so 

fleet : 
Sad  are  our  hi  "pes,  lorlhey  were  sweet 

in  sowing. 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopped 

the  wheat : 
Sad  are  oin-  jnys,  for  they  were  sweet 

in  Mowing  — 
And  still,  oh  still,  their  dying  breath 

is  sweet. 
And  sweet  Is  youth,  although  it  hath 

bereft  us 
Of   that   whieh  made  our  childhood 

sweeter  s!  ill  : 

And  sweet  is  mid<lle  life,  for  it  hath 

I.-ft  us 
.\  nearer  good  to  iine  an  oldi'r  ill: 
.\nd  sweet  are  all   things,  wlwn  w« 

learn  to  prize  ihem 
Not  forthelr  sake.  Imt  His  who  grant! 

them  or  denies  them! 


DICKENS  —  DICKINSON. 


187 


Charles  Dickens. 


THE  IVY  GREEN. 

Oh!  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old; 
r>f  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  1 
ween, 
In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls    must    be  crumbled,   the 
stones  decayed, 
To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years 
have  made 
Is  a  meriy  meal  for  him. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears 

no  wings. 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he ! 

How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he 

clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak  tree ! 


And    slyly    he    traileth    along    the 
ground. 
And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves. 
And    lie  joyously   twines   and   hugs 
around 
The   rich   mould    of    dead    men's 
graves. 
Creei)ing  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works 
decayed. 
And  nations  scattered  been; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  iicarly  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can 
raise 
Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen. 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


Charles   M.  Dickinson. 


TUE  CHILDREN. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all 
ended, 
And  tlie  school  for  the  day  is  dis- 
missed. 
The  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed ; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encir- 
cle 
My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace ! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heav- 
en, 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my 
face! 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dream- 
ing 
Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember, 
While  it  wakes  to  the  ])ul.-;c  of  the 
past, 


Ere    the   world   and   its   wickedness 
made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin. 
When  the  gloiy  of  God  was  about  me. 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a 
woman's. 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will 
flow. 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and 
stony. 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones 
nnist  go; 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er 
them. 
Of  the   temi)est  of  Fate  blowing 
wild; 
Oh!  there's  nothing  on  eartli  half  so 
holy 
.Vs  the  innocent  licart  of  a  child' 


l^H 


DWKiySON. 


They  ai c  idols  of  hearts  ami  of  house- 
liolds. 
'I'lu-y  art'  angels  of  God  in  disgiiiso; 
His  .sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tres- 
ses, 
Ilis  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes: 
Tliosi'  truants  from  home  and  from 
heaven  — 
They  ha' e  uiade  nu-  more  manly 
"ai'd  mild: 
And  1   know  now  how   Jesus  could 
liken 
The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child ! 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones. 

All  i;icli:nit,  as  others  have  done, 
Bui  that  life  may  have  just  enough 
shadow 
To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun 
I    would    jiray   God  to  guard   them 
from  evil, 
IJut  my  prayer  would  hound  hack 
ti>  myself; 
Ah!  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 
Ihit  a  sinner  nmst  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  hended, 

i  have  banished  the  nde  and  the 
ro.1: 
1  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of 
knowledge. 
They  have  taught  me  the  goodness 
of  God ; 


My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness, 
Where  1  shut  them  for  hreaking  a 
rule: 

My  frown  is  sullieient  eorreeticui; 
My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  an- 
tunui, 
To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 
Ah!  how   I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear 
ones, 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at   the 
door! 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good-nights  "  and 
kisses,  Iglf". 

And   the   gush   of   their   innoeeul 
The  group   on   the  green,   and   the 
tlowers 
That  are  hrought  every  morning 
for  me. 

I  shall  mi.ss  them  at  morn  and  at  even. 
Tljeirsong  in  the  school  and   the 
St  reet ; 
I  shall   miss  the  low  lium  of   their 
voi(*es, 
.\nd  the  tread  of  their  delicate  foti 
Wlii'M  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ende<l, 
Antl  death  says  "The  sehotd  is  dis- 
missed!'" 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me 
To  hit!   me  "good-night"  and  he 
kissetl ! 


Mary   Lowe   Dickinson. 


IF  HK  n.\h  nrr  a  i>.i  v. 


\Vk   should    till   tlM-   hours   with   the 
sweetest  things. 
If  we  liiid  hut  a  diLy; 
VVe  should  drink  alone  at  the  jiuresi 
springs 
In  our  upward  way: 

We  should  love  with  a  lifetilUl-'s  love 

in  an  hour, 
If  the  hours  were  few; 
We  should  rest,  not   for  dreams,  hut 

for  fre  her  power 
Tu  be  and  lo  do. 


We   should   guide   our   waywanl    or 
wearii'd  wills 
Ily  the  clearest  light; 
We    .shoidd     keei>   our   eyes   on   the 
heaveidy  hills. 
If  thev  lav  in  sight; 
We  shoulil  trample  the  pride  and  the 

di'outeul 

lienealh  our  feet ; 
We    should    tak.-    whal<'ver   a   go«HJ 
God  sent, 
Willi  a  trust  complete. 


DOBELL. 


189 


Wfc  should   waste    no    moments    in 
w  eak  regret, 
If  the  day  were  but  one; 
If  what  we  remember  and  what  we 
,    forget 
Went  out  with  the  sim; 


We  should  be  from   our  clamorous 
selves  set  free, 
To  work  or  to  pray. 
And  to  be  what  the  Father  would 
have  us  be, 
If  we  had  but  a  day. 


Sydney  Thompson   Dobell. 


AMERICA. 

Nofi  force  nor  fraud  shall  simder  us ! 
O  ye 

Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  west- 
ern lands, 

Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for 
truth. 

Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love, 
and  God 

For  God.  O  ye,  who  in  eternal 
youth 

Speak  with  a  living  unfl  creative  flood 

This  universal  Enulish.  and  do  stand 

Its  breathing  book;  live  worthy  of 
that  grand 

Heroic  utterance,  —  parted,  yet  a 
whole. 

Far,  yet  unsevered, —  children  brave 
and  free 

Of  the  great  mother-tongue,  and  ye 
shall  be 

Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakes- 
peare's soul. 

Sublime  ar,  Milton's  innnemorial 
tlieme. 

And  ri(  h  as  riiaucer's  speech,  and 
fair  as  Spenser's  flream. 


HOME,    WOUNDED. 

Stay  wherever  yon  will. 

By  the  moimt  or  under  the  hill, 

Or  down  by  the  littl<'  river: 

Stay  as  long  as  you  i)lease. 

Give  me  only  a  l)ud  from  the  trees. 

Or  a  blade  of  grass  in  morning  dew, 

Or  a  cloudy  violet  clearing  to  blue, 

I  could  look  on  it  forever. 


AVlieel.  wheel  through  the  simshinc 
Wheel,  wlieel  througli  the  shadow: 
There  must  be  odors  round  the  pine. 
There  must  be  balm   of    breathing 

kine, 
Somewhere  down  in  the  meadow. 
Must   I   choose?     Then   anchor  nic 

there 
Heyond  the  beckoning  poplars,  where 
The   larch  is   snooding  her  flowen* 

hair 
With  wreaths  of  morning  shadow. 
Among  the  thickest   hazels  of   the 

brake 
Perchance    some    nightingale    doth 

shake  [song; 

His  feathers,  and  the  air  is  full  of 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young 

and  strong. 
He  used  to  sing  on  yonder  garden  tree, 
Beside  the  nursery. 

Along  my  life  my  length  I  lay, 
I  fill  to-morrow  and  yesterday, 
I  am  warm  with  the  sims  that  have 

long  since  set, 
I  am  warm  with  the  summers  that  are 

not  yet. 
And  like  one  who  dreams  and  dozes 
Softly  afloat  on  a  simny  sea. 
Two  worlds  are  whispering  over  me. 
And  there  blows  a  wind  of  roses 
From  the  backward  slioit  to  the  shore 

l)efore. 
From  the  shore  before  to  the  back- 
wan  I  shore. 
And  like  twoclouds  that  meet  and poui 
Each  through  each,  fill  core  in  core 
A  single  self  repos<>s, 
'J'he  nevermore  with  the  evermore 
Above  mc  mingles  and  closes. 


190 


d<jbs()N 


Austin   Dobson. 


TffE  CHILD  ursrci.A.w         I 

He   had    i)liiyed   for    his    lordship's  j 
Ic-vc'.-, 
lie  liad   i.iayo.i   for  her  ladyship's 
whim.  I 

Till  the  I'oor  litlh-  hcid  wa';  lioavy.      I 
And   till'   poor   liuie   l)raiii    would 
swim. 

\\u\  ili(!  fare  grew  peaked  ami  eerie, 

And    tlie   largo   eyes   strange   and 

i)riL;ht, 

And  llicy  said.— loo  lai.'.— "  He  is 

weary  I 

He  shall  rest  for  at  least  to-night!" 

i'.iil  at  dawn,  when   the   binis  were 
waking. 
As    they    watehi-il    in    llie    silent 
room. 
With  tlie  sound  of  a  straiiied  cord 
hrcakim;. 
A  soiaciliing  snapped  in  the  gloom. 

Twas  a  string  of  his  violoncello. 
And  they  li<'ani  iiim  siir  in  ids  hod: 

•  Make  riiiim  U>r  a  tired  little  fellow. 
Kind  (JodI  "  was  tin;  last  that  he 
said. 


T/n:  rnniiKiALs. 

■*  I'RlNf'KsI  —  ami  you.  mf)st  valorous 

Nobles  and  barons  of  all  degrees! 
Hearken  r»while  to  the  prayer  of  us, 

Prodigals  driven  of  <lestinies! 

Nothing  we  ask  of  gold  or  fees; 
Harry   ii     not  with   tlie  hounds,  we 
pray ; 

I/o!  for  the  sureole's  hem  we  seize, 
fjive  us.  ah!  give  us,  —  b"/    yester- 
day! 

•  Dames  most  delicate,  ;•.  lorous! 
Damosels  blithe  as  tho  l>elled  bees! 

Heggars  are  we  that  pray  ."'. thus, 

Heggai-s  outworn  of  niisern\sl 
Nothing  we  iisk  of  the  things  that 
I)lease; 

Weary  are  we,  and  old,  and  gray: 


Lo. —  for  we  clutch  and  wo   clasp 
your  kneev, — 
Give  us,  ah !  give  us,  —but  yesterday 

■'  Damosels,  dam^s,  be  piteous!" 
(Bui   the  dames  rode  fast  by  lli. 
roadway  mes. ) 
"  Hear  us,  O  knights  nmgnanimon-- ! ' 
(Bui   the    ku:glits   pricked   on   ii 

their  pan  ipKi  s. ) 
Nothing  iliey  gat  of  hope  or  ease. 
But  only  to  lieat  on  the  breast,  and 
say,  — 
'•  Life  we  drank  to  the  dregs  and 

lees; 
fiive  us.  ah!  give  us, —  but  yester- 
day!" 

ENVOY. 

Youth,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of 
these! 
Many  there  bo  by  the  diisly  way. — 
Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  and  soas, 
"(Jive  us,  ah!  give  us, —  but  yes- 
terday!'' 


'•/'•.i/:j:\n:i./.,  n/xouw   • 

Fauewki.i.,   Renown!    Too  fleeting 

flower. 

That  grows  a  year  to  last  an  hour:  — 

Trize  of  the  race's  dust  and  he  it. 

Too  often  irodtlen  umler  feel. — 

Why  should   I  court  your  '*  barren 

dower"  ? 

Xay;  had  1  Dryden's  angry  power,  -- 
The   thews   of    Ben,  —  the   wiinl    of 
(rower,  — 
Not  less  my  voice  should  still  repeat 
"Farewell,  Henown!" 

Farewell !— Because  the  Muses'  bower 

Is  tilled  with  rival  brows  that  lower; — 

l^ecause,  howe'er  his  J)!)"*'  be  sweet. 

Till'  Bard,  that  "  pays,  "  nnisi  jdeiuso 

the  street;  — 

But  most  .  .  .  because  the  grapes  are 

sour.  — 

Farewell,    Mellow  II ! 


DODOE. 


m 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


THE   HUMAN  TIE. 

'■'  As  if  life  were  not  sacred,  too." 

Ukokck  Eliot. 

"  Si^iSAK  tenderly!  For  he  is  dead," 
we  say ; 
"V7ith  gracious  hand  smooth  all 
his  roughened  past, 
And  fullest  measure  of  reward 
forecast. 

Forgetting  naught  that  gloried  his 
brief  day." 

Yet  of  the  brother,  who,  along  our 
way. 
Prone   with    his    burdens,   heart- 
worn  in  the  strife, 
Totters  before  us  —  how  we  search 
his  life. 

Censure,  and  sternly  punish,  while 
we  may. 

Oh,  weary  are  the  paths  of  Earth, 
and  hard ! 

And  living  hearts  alone  are  ours  to 
guard. 

At  ieast,  begrudge  not  to  the  sore  dis- 
traught 

The  revci-ent  silence  of  our  pitying 
thought. 

Life,  too,  is  sacred ;  and  he  best  for- 
gives 

Who  says:  "  He  errs,  but  —  tenderly! 
He  lives." 


MY   WINDOW-IVY. 

OVEU  my  window  the  ivy  climbs, 

Its  roots  all!  ill  homely  jars: 
But  all  the  day  it  looks  at  the  sun. 
And  at  night  looks  out  at  the  stars. 

The  dust  of  the  room  may  dim  its 
green . 
But  1  call  to  the  breezy  air: 
"  Come  in,  come  in,  good  friend  of 
mine! 
And  make  my  window  fair." 

So  the  ivy  thrives  from  morn  to  morn. 
Its  leaves  all  turned  to  the  Hght ; 


And   it  gladdens   my   soul  with   it 
tender  green, 
And  teaches  me  day  and  night. 

What  though  my  lot  is  in  lowly  place, 
And  my  spirit  behind  the  bars; 

All  the  long  day  I  may  look  at  th" 
Sim, 
And  at  night  look  out  at  the  stars. 

What  though  the  dust  of  earth  would 
dim'? 
There's  a  glorious  outer  air 
That  will  sweep  through  my  soul  if  1 
let  it  in. 
And  make  it  fresh  and  fair. 

Dear  God !  let  me  grow  from  day  to 
day. 
Clinging  and  sunny  and  bright  I 
Though  planted  in  shade.  Thy  win- 
dow is  near. 
And  ray  leaves  may  turn  to  the 
light. 


DEATH  IX  LIFE. 

She  sitteth  there  a  mourner. 

With  her  dead  before  her  eyes; 
Flushed  with  llie  hues  of  life  is  he 

And  quick  are  his  replies. 
Often  his  warm  hand  touches  hers; 

Brightly  his  glances  fall; 
And  yet,  in  this  wide  world,  is  she 

The  loneliest  of  all. 

Some  mourners  feel  their  dead  return 

In  dreams,  or  thoughts  at  even; 
Ah,  well  for  thi'in  their  best-belove'i 

Are  faithful  still  in  heaven! 
But  woe  to  lier  whose  best  beloved. 

Though  dcMtl.  still  lingers  near; 
So  far  aw  ay  when  by  her  side, 

He  cannot  see  nor  hear. 

^Vith  heart  intent,  he  comes,  he  gocj 

In  busy  ways  of  life. 
His  gains  ainj  chances  counteth  he: 

His  hours  with  joy  are  rife. 


1 92 


DODGE. 


'  arelpss  \\o  trroots  her  day  l>y  day, 
N'T  iliiiiks  (if  woiils  onre  said,  — 

■)h.  would  that  lovi'  could  livo  aLjaiu, 
i)r  her  heart  give  up  its  dead ! 


HKAirr-OnACLES. 

Bv  the  motes  do  we  know  where  the 

siiiiheam  is  slanting; 
I'lirou<ili     the     iunderiiijj;    stones, 

speaks  the  sold  of  tlie  i)rook; 
Past  tlie   rustle  of    leaves  we   press 

iulo  the  stillufss: 
Throu^'ii  darkness  and  void  to  the 

IMi'iads  we  look; 
Oui'  hiid-note  at  dawn  with  the  night- 

silenee  o'er  us, 
Jieilins  all  the  morning's  mimilioenl 

ehorus. 

Through   sorrow  come  glimpses  of 
inlinite  gladness; 
Through  grand  discontent  mounts 
the  spirii  of  youth  ; 

F,oueliness  foldeth  a  wonderful  lov- 
ing; 
Till'    lireakers   of    Douht   lead   the 
great  tide  of  Truth  : 

And    dn-ail    and    grief-haunted   the 
shadowy  portal 

I'hal  shuts  from  our  vision  the  splen- 
dor immortal. 


riiF.  (Ill I.I)  A.\i>  rill-:  si:.i. 

Oyv:  sinmner  dav,  wlien   hirds   (lew 
high. 

I  saw  a  child  step  into  the  sea; 
It  glowed  «nd  s])arkl«'d  at  Ikt  toucli 

And     softly    plashed     ahout    lu-r 
kiwe. 
i'  h«'Id  h«-:  lightly  with  its  stn-ngth. 

If  ki->r'd  anil  kissi'd  hfrsilkm  hair; 
It  swayi'd  with  teiidcrnrss  to  know 

A  Hull'  rhild  was  in  its  carr. 

■If.  :,'|.ifid.  ilii)ped  her  jintty  arms. 
And    fauiiht    tin*    sjiarkh-s    in   her 

haiidx: 
hiMid  h<'r  lau^'liler.  as  she  soon 
<  ami' Hkipping  up  Die  suniiN  sands. 


"  Is  this  the  cruel  sea  ?"  I  tlionght, 
"  'i'he  mt-rciless.  theawfid  sea  '.'"— 

Now  hear  the  answer  soft  and  true. 
That  rippled  over  the  beach  to  me: 

"iSliall   not  the  sea.  in  the  sun,  he 
glad 
When  a  child  doth  come  to  play  ? 
Had  it  lu-en  in  the  storm-time,  what 
coidd  I. 
The  st-a,  hut  hear  her  away  — 
Bear  her  away  on  my  foaming  crest. 
Toss  lier  and  hurry  her  to  her  rest? 

"  r.e  it  lift>  or  death,  (iod  rnleth  me; 

And  he  loveth  every  soul; 
I've  an  earthly  shore  and  a  heavt>nly 
shore, 
And  towanl  them  both  I  roll; 
Shining    and    heautiful,    both     are 
they, — 
And   a   little  child   will  go  (iodv 
way." 


Till-:  sr.fns. 

TiiKV  wait  all  day  unseen  by  us,  im- 
felt; 
ralient  they  bide  behind  the  days 

full  glare; 
And    we    who  watcbetl  (he   d;iwn 
wln'U  tln'y  were  thrii-. 
Thought    we   had    seen  them  in  lln- 

dayli'Jil  melt. 
While  the  slow  sun  ujion  the  earth- 
!in<'  kuflt. 
liecause  the   teeming  sky    scrun'd 

\<iid  and  bail-. 
When  we  exjilort'd  it   tlirough  thr 
da/./led  air. 
We  had    no    tlioui^ht    that    there  all 

dav  lln-y  dwelt. 
Vet  were  t  hey  ovrr  us.  alive  and  true, 
In  the  vast  simtles  far  up  above  the 

bin.-. — 
The    broodim,'    shades    beyond    our 
<laylight  ken  — 
.srri-nc   and    jialient  in  their  con- 
scious light 
Heads  to  sparkle  for  our  joy  again,-- 
The  eiern  i!  jewels   of   the   short- 
lived night. 


DORR. 


lO.i 


Julia  C.   R.   Dorr. 


WHAT  SHE    THOUGHT. 

Makion   showed    me    her    wedding 
gown 
And  her  veil  of  gossamer  lace  to- 
niglit. 
And  the  orange-blooms  that  to-mor- 
row morn 
Shall  fade  in  her  soft  hair's  golden 
light. 
iJiK  Philip  came  to  the  open  door: 
Like    the    heart    of    a    wild-rose 
glowed  her  cheek. 
And  they  wandered  off  through  the 
ganlen  paths 
So  blest  that  they  did  not  care  to 
speak. 

I  wonder  how  it  seems  to  be  loved: 
To   know  you  are   fair    in    some 
one's  eyes ; 
That   upon  some  one  your  beauty 
dawns 
Every  day  as  a  new  surprise ; 
To  know,  that,  whether  you  weep  or 
smile, 
AVliether  your  mood  be  grave  or 

Somebody  thinks  you,  all  the  while, 
Sweeter  than  any  flower  of  May. 

I  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  love: 
That,  I  think,  would  be  sweeter 
far, 
To  know  that  one  out  of  all  the  world 
Was  lord  of  your  life,  your  king, 
your  star. 
They  talk  of  love's  sweet  tumult  and 
pain: 
I  am  not  srj-e  that  I  understand. 
Though, —  a  thrill  ran  down  to  my 
finger-tips 
Once  wlien, — somebody, —  touched 
my  hand! 

1  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  dream 

Of  a  child  that  might  one  day  be 

your  own;  [part. 

Of  the  hidden  springs  of  your  life  a 

Flesh   of   your  flesh,  and  bone  of 

your  bone. 


Marion  stooped  one  day  to  kiss 
A  beggar's    babe   with    a    tend'-; 
grace; 
While  some  sweet  thought,  like  a 
prophecy. 
Looked  from  her  pure  Madonna 
face. 

I  wonder  what  it  must  be  to  'hiuk 
To-morrow 'will  be  your  wedding- 
day, 
And  you,  in  the  radiant  sunset  glow 
Down  fragrant  flowery  paths  will 
stray, 
As  Marion  does  this  blessed  night. 
With    Philip,    lost    in    a    blissful 
dream. 
Can  she  feel  his  heart  through  the 
silence  beat? 
Does  he  see  her  eyes  in  the  star- 
light gleam  '? 

Questioning  thus,  my  days  go  on ; 

But  never  an  answer  comes  to  me* 
All  lovt''s  mysteries,  sweet  as  strange, 

Sealed  away  from  my  life  nuist  be. 
Yet  still  I  dream,  O  heart  of  mine  I 

Of  a  beautifid  city  that  lies  afar; 
And  there,  some  time,  I  shall  droii 
the  mask. 

And  be  shapely  and  fair  as  othei'S 
are. 


AT   THE  LAST. 

Wii.i.  the  day  ever  come,  I  womler. 

When  I  shall  be  glad  to  know 
That  my  hands  will  be  folded  under 

The  next  white  fall  of  the  snow  ? 
To  know  that  when  next  the  clovei 

Wo()((lli  the  ^\■a^d(■ring  bee. 
Its  crimson  tiiie  will  driift  ovei 

All  that  is  left  of  me  ? 

Shall  I  ever  be  tired  of  living, 
.Vnd  l)e  glad  to  go  to  my  rest, 

With  a  nxtl  and  fragrant  lily 
Asleep  on  my  silent  breast  ? 


194 


DORR. 


Will  my  t'Vfs  f^row  weary  of  seeing, 
As  the  lidurs  pass,  one  i)y  one. 

Till  1  long  for  the  hush  and  the  dark- 
ness 
As  1  never  longeil  for  the  sun  ? 

tJoil  knoweth!  Some  time,  it  may  be. 

1  shall  .smile  to  liear  you  say: 
'Dear  liearll  she  will  not  waken 

Al  the  (lawn  of  another  day!" 
Ami  some  lime,  love,  it  may  he, 

I  shall  whisiKM-  miiler  my  breath: 
•  The  happiest  hour  wf  my  life,  dear, 

Is  this,  -the  hour  of  my  death!" 


WHAT  .ski: I).' 

"What  need  has  llie  singer  to  sing? 

And  why  shouM  your  poet  to-day 
His  pale  lit;'. .  garland  of  jujesy  bring. 

On  the  altar  to  lay? 
Iligh-priesls  of  song  the  harp-strings 

swept 
Ages  before  he  smiled  or  wept !" 

What  n 1  have  the  roses  lo  blooni  ? 

Ami  why  do  the  tall  lilies  grow  '.' 

And   why  do  tlu'  violets  shed   their 

lierfuiiie 

When  night-winds  breathe  low? 

They  are  no  whit  more  bright  and 

fair  |airl 

Than  tlowers  that  breathed  in  Eden's 

What  need  have  the  stars  lo  shine 

on  ? 
Or  the  clouds  to  grow  reil  in  the 

west. 
When  the  sun.  like  a  king,  from  the 

fields  he  has  won, 
(Joes  grandly  to  rest  ? 
No  bri'.,'hter  they  than  stars  and  skies 
That   greeted    Five's  sweet,  womler- 

;;ig  eyes! 

What  need  has  tlie  eai:le  to  soar 

So  prouilly  straiiilit  up  lo  the  sun  '.' 
Or  ihe  roidn  sueh  jubilant    music  to 

I • 

When  day  i^  begun? 
'Ihe  eagles  so.ired.  the  robins  sung. 
A-.   \\\i\\.  a-,  sweet,   wiien   earth    «as 

young ! 


What  need,  do  you  ask  me?    Each 

day 
llath  a  .song  and  a  prayer  of  itn 

own, 
As  eaeh  .lune  liath  its  erown  of  fresh 

roses,  each  -May 
Its  bright  emi'r.iKl  thronel 
Its  own  hi^h  thought  eucli  iige  shall 

stir, 
Kaeh  needs  its  own  interpreter! 

And  thou,  ().  my  poet,  sing  on! 

Sing  on  luitil  iove  shall  grow  old; 

Till  patience  and  faith  their  last  tri 

umplis  havt?  won. 

And  truth  is  a  tale  that  is  told! 

-Doubt  not,  thy  .song  shall  still  be  new 

While  life  endures  and  God  is  true! 


i'h:i!M>i  r.srrnF. 

I  AM  thinking  to-night  of  the  little 
child 
That  lay  on  my  breast  three  slim- 
mer days. 
Then  swiftly,  silently,  droppeil  from 
sight, 
Wliili-  my  soul  cried  out  in  sore 
ama/.e. 

It  is  fifteen  years  ago  to-ni^ht ; 

Somewhere.  I    know,  he   has  lived 

them   through, 

rerhajjs   with    never  a   thought    or 

ilream  jknewl 

Of     the     mother-heart     he    never 

Is  he  yet  but  a  babe  ?  or  has  he  grown 
To  be   like   his  brothel's,  fair  and 
tall. 
With  a  clear  bright  eye,  and  .i  spring- 
ing step. 
And  a  voice  that  rings  like  a  bugle 
call  ? 

I  lo\ed  him.     Till'  rose  in  his  waxen 
hand 
Was  wi-t  with  the  dew  of  my  fall 
ing  tears; 
1  have  ke]il  the  Ihoni^dit  of  ni>  baby'.s 
urave 
TUroii^h    all    Ihe    b-ngth    of    IhesO 
changeful  years. 


DORR. 


195 


Yet  the  love  I  gave  him  was  not  like 

that 

I  give  to-day  to  my  other  boys. 

Who  have    grown   beside    me,   and 

turned  to  me 

In  all  their  griefs  and  in  all  their 

joys. 

Do  you  think  he  knows  it  ?    I  won- 
der much 
If  the  dead  are   passionless,  cold 
and  dumb; 
If  into  the  calm  of    the  deathless 
years 
No  thrill  of  a  human  love  may 
come ! 

Perhaps  sometimes  from  the  upper 
air 
He  has  seen  me  walk  with    his 
brothers  three; 
Or  felt  in  the  tender  twilight  hour 
The  breath  of  the  kisses  they  gave 
to  me  I 

Over  his  birthright,  lost  so  soon, 
Perhaps  be  has  sighed  as  the  swift 
yt'ars  flew; 
O  child  of  my  heart!  you  shall  find 
somewhere 
The  love  that  on  earth  you  never 
knew  1 


THOU  KNOWRf^T. 

Tiiou  knowest,  O  my  Father!    Why 
shoidd  I 
Weary  liigh  heaven   with  restless 
prayers  ami  tears  ! 
'rhou  knowest  all !    My  heart's  unut- 
tered  cry 
Hath  soared  beyond  the  stars  and 
reached  Thine  ears. 

Thou  knowest. —  ah.  Thou  knowest! 
Then  what  need, 
f),  loving  God,  to  tell  Thee  o'er 
and  o'er, 
And  Willi  i)ersistent  iteration  plead 
As  one  \\  bo  crieth  at  some  closed 
door  i* 


"Tease   not!"    we  mothers   to  oui 
children  say, — 
"  Our  wiser  love  will  grant  whate'cr 
is  best." 
Shall  we,  Thy  children,  rim  to  Thee 
alway. 
Begging  for  this  and  that  in  wild 
unrest  ? 

I  dare  not  clamor  at  the  heaveidy 
gate, 
Lest  I  should  lose  the  high,  sweet 
strains  within; 
O,  Love  Divine!  I  can  but  stand  and 
wait 
Till  Perfect  Wisdom  bids  me  en- 
ter in ! 


FIVE. 


"But  a  week  is  so  long! "  he  said, 
With  a  toss  of  bis  curly  head. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  live,  six, 
seven ! — 

Seven  whole  days!  Why,  in  six  you 
know 

(You  said  it  yourself, —  you  told  me 
so) 

The  great  God  up  in  heaven 

Made  all  the  earth  and  the  seas  and 
skies, 

The  trees  and  the  birds  and  the  but- 
terflies! 

How  can  I  wait  for  my  seeds  to 
grow  ?" 

' '  But  a  month  is  so  long ! "   he 

said. 
With  a  droop  of  his  boyish  head. 
"Hear  me  coimt, —  one,  two,  three, 

four, — 
Four  whole  weeks,  and  three  days 

more ; 
Thirty-one  days,  and  each  will  creep 
As  the  shadows  crawl  over  yonder 

steep. 
Thirty-one  nights,  and  I  shall  lie 
Watching  the  stare  climb  up  the  sky! 
How  can  I  wait  till  a  month  is  o'er?' 

"But  a  year  is  so  long!"  he  said. 
Uplifting  his  bright  young  head. 


196 


DORR. 


"All  the  seasons  must  come  and  jio     '  And  then  I  turned  to  my  luxisohold 

Over  the  liill  witli  t'i)<it>teps  slow. —  ^\ay>, 

Autiuun    and    winter,  suuiuier  and        To  my  dail\  Uisks.  without,  witlan, 


spriiiii; 
Oh,  for  ;i  briilire  of  gold  to  lling 
Over  tJK'  elia>ui  deep  and  wide, 
Tiiat  1  miu'ht  eross  to  the  other  side, 
Wliere  siie  is  wailing, —  my  love,  my 

bride  I "' 

"Ten  years  may  be  long,"  he  said, 
iSlow  raising  iiis  stately  head, 
"But  theirs  nnieh  lu  win,  there  is 

unuli  to  lose; 
A   man    niii.-i    labor,   a    man    must 

choose, 
And  he  nuist  be  strong  to  wait! 


As  happil\  i»us>  all  the  day 
As  if  my  d.iiling  had  never  been! 

As  If  she  had  never  lived,  or  died  I 
Yet  when  they  buried  her  out  of 
my  siglil, 
I  thought  the  sun  had  gone  down  at 
noon, 
And  I  he  day  could  never  again  be 
bright. 

Ah,  well!    As  the  swift  years  come 
and  go. 
It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  .shall  lie 


The   years   may   be    long,    but   who    JSomewlitr.' under  a  bit  of  tiuf. 


woulil  wear 
The  crown  of  honor,  nuLst  do  and 

dare! 
No  time  has  he  to  toy  with  fate 
Who  would  climb  to  manhood's  high 

estate!" 

"  .\li !  life  is  not  long!''  he  said, 
Bowing  his  grand  while  head. 

"One,    two,   three,   four,   five,   six, 
seven! 

Seven  times  ten  are  seventy. 

tSevent)  years!  as  swift  their  llight 

As  swallows  cleaving  the   morning 
light. 

( >r  goldfu  gleams  at  even. 

Liff  is  short  as  a  >iiiiiiiier  night. — 

llow  long,  U  (itiiil  is  ilirnily  '.'" 


AT  DAWN. 

IlT  dawn  when  the  jubilant  morning 
i)roke. 
And  its  glory  Hooded  the  mountain 
.side. 
i  said,  '■  'Tis  eleven  years  lo-<lay. 
Eleven     vearB    since     uiy    darling 
died!" 


\\"\i\\  my  i>ale  hands  foldeil  quietly. 

And  then  .some  one  who  has  loved 
me  well, — 
Perhaps  the  one  who  has  loved  me 
best,— 
Will  say  of  me  as  1  said  of  her. 
•'Shi'  lias  i)eeu  ju>l  so  many  years 
at  rest,"  — 

Then  turn  to  the  livim,'  loves  again, 
'i'o  tlin  liusy  lif'-.  without,  within. 

And  the  day  will  go  on  from  dawn  to 
dusk. 
Even  as  if  1  had  m-vcr  Ix-i-n! 

Dear   hi'arts!  dear  hearts!     It   must 
si  ill  !>.•  sn! 
The  roses  will  bloom,  and  the  stars 
will  shine. 
Am!  the  soft  green  grass  crec])  still 
and  slow, 
iSoni*  'ime  over  a  grave  of  mine, — 

And  over  the  grave  in  your  hearts  vlsi 
wrll! 

V<'  eaniiol  hinder  it  if  ye  woulii; 
And  I, —  ah!  I  shall  be  wiser  then,— 

1  woidd  not  hinder  it  if  1  could! 


DRAKE. 


197 


Joseph   Rodman    Drake. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain 
height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  rol)e  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
'i'he  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With     streakings    of    the    morning 

light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud! 

\Vlio  lear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form. 
To  hear  the  l(;mpest-trumpings  loud. 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the 
storm. 
And     rolls    the    thunder-drum     of 

heaven; 
Child  of  the  sun  I  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free. 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  l)id  its  bjeudings  shine  afar, 
Like  lainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war. 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave!  thy  folds  shall  fly. 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  1  igh. 
When  sjjcaks  the  signal  trumiiet  umc. 
And   the   long   line  comes  gleaming 

on; 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the;  glistcnim^  bayouel. 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  lirightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 


And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the 
glance ; 

And    when    the    cannon-moiunings 
loud 

Heave   in   wJld  wreaths  the   battle- 
shroud. 

And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall. 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnigh.t's 
pall ; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  be- 
neath 

Each  gailant  arm  that  strikes  below 
I'hat  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
^Vhell  (k'ath,  careering  on  the  gale. 
Sweeps    Jarkly    round     the    bellied 

sail. 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broad-side's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall   look   at  once  to  heaven   and 

I  li(>e. 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and 
home, 
By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ; 
Thy  star-*  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 
And   all   thy   hues  were   born    in 
heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standanl  sheet ! 
When'  iireathes  the  foe  but  falls 
Ix'for*'  us, 
Willi   Fivcdom's    soil    beneath    our 
feet. 
And  Fri'edom's  banner  streaming 
o'er  us  ? 


198 


DliAYTOX—  DRUMMOXD. 


Michael  Drayton. 


Tin:  I'AiiTisG. 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  iis 
kiss  and  part; 
Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more 
of  me; 
And  1  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my 
heart 
That  thus  so  cleanly  1  myself  can 
free: 
Shake  hand,  'or  ever,  cancel  all  our 
\ows ; 
And   when   we  meet  at  any  time 
again. 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 


That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  re- 
tain.— 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest 
breath. 
When   his    jiulse    failing,  Passion 
spei'chless  lies. 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of 
death. 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his 
eyes. 
Now  if  thou  woiddst.  when  all  have 

givfu  iiiiii  over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him 
yet  recover. 


William   Drummond. 


WHAT    WK    TOIL   FOR. 

Ok  mortal  glory  O  soon  darkened 

ray! 
O  winged  joys  of  man,  more  swift 

tiian  wind! 
<)  fond  desires,  wlilili  in  our  fancies 

St  ray ! 
O   traitorous   hopes,    which   do    <iur 

judgments  blind ! 
Lo,  in  a  Hash  llial  light  is  gone  away 
Which  (ia/./.le  did  each  eye,  delight 

cadi  mind, 
.\nd,  with   that   mui  fmm  wliriicc  it 

caUH-  <'(iinlHned, 
Now  maki's  more  radiant  lleaven'.s 

rtrrual  day. 
Let    Ileauly  now   lu'dew  her   cheeks 

with    Irars; 
!,et   widowed    .Music   only  roar  and 

groan ; 
Poor    Virtiii',    get    I  lire    wings    and 

moiuil   the  .S)>hereH, 
For  ihvillin'.,'placr  on  earth  for  thee 

is  noM)-! 
Death  lialli  thy  Ifuiple  ra/.<d.  I.ovr'.s 

••m|iirt'  foiled. 

move.  |lovc.  !The   winld    of    honor,    worth,    and 

Uut  thai,  ala<!  1  bolli  must  write  and  I  sweetness  spoili^d. 


DESPITE   ALL. 

I  KNOW  that  all  beneath  the  moon 

decays : 
Ami  what  i)y  mortals  in  this  world  is 

brought. 
In  time's  great   periods  sliall  refimi 

to  nought; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights 

and  days. 
1  know  that  all  the  Muses'  heavenly 

lays. 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  an;  so  dear- 
ly bought. 
As  idle  soiuids,  of  fiw  ur  none  are 

sought ; 
'I'hat  tliere   is   nothing  lighter  than 

vain  i>niisf. 
I  know  Trail  bi-auly's  like  the  piu-plc 

tl.  wer 
To  whirh   one  mom    oft    birth   and 

death  atTords: 
That   love   a    jarring   is    of    niiu<rs 

aceords. 
Where  sense   and   will   firing   under 

reason's  power: 
Know  what  I  list,  this  all  cannot  me 


DRY  DEN.  199 

John  Dryden. 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;  OR,   THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC. 
AN   ODE   IN  HONOR  OF   ST.    CECILIA'S   DAY. 

'TwAS  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son: 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne: 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  aroimd, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound; 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais  by  liis  side,, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timothous  placed  on  high. 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  .Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  ho  to  fair  Olympia  pressed: 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast: 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world 
The  lislcniiig  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity!  they  shout  aroiuid: 
A  present  deity!  the  vaidted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears. 
Assumes  tlic  god, 
Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


'^00  DRYUKX. 


cnoBus. 

With  ravisliod  cars 
The  inoiiarcli  hears, 
Assiiims  the  .^ot!, 
AlTerts  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  i)raise  of  Bacchus  then  tlie  sweet  nmsieian  sung, 
or  IJiU'ohiis  —  ever  fair  and  ever  young: 
'I'lie  jolly  god  in  triinupli  comes; 
Souiiii  tile  trumpets;  i)eat  tlie  drums: 
Kluslied  with  a  purple  grace 
He  sliows  his  iKJuest  face; 
Now  i;ive  the  hauti)()ys  hreath.     lie  comes!  he  c'omes! 
IJaccluis,  ever  fair  an<l  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  lirst  onlain; 
lUiei-hus"  iilessings'  are  a  treasuie, 
I )! inking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Uieli  tile  treasnri'. 
Sweet  tlie  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHf)Kt.'S. 
liaeclius'  hlessiu'^  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  llie  soldier's  pleasure, 
liieli  the  tieasmc. 
Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pieasiu'e  after  pain. 

Sootlied  with  the  sound  tlie  king  grew  vain; 

FoM^dit  all  his  hattles  o'er  again; 
And  Ihriee  he  rouied  all  his  foes;  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slaiu 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise; 
His  glowing  <'heeks.  liis  ardi'Ut  eyes; 
And,  while  lie  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Clianged  hi>  liand.  .iiid  ehecki-d  his  pritle. 
He  chose  a  niutirnful  muse 
Soft  ])ily  to  infuse: 
He  siuig  Darius,  great  and  good; 

Hv  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fali'.i!,  lalleii,  fallen,  fallen. 
Fallen  from  his  hi',di  estate. 

And  weltering  in  his  hlood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  ntnmsi  noed, 
Hy  lliose  his  foiiner  homity  fed; 
On  (he  l-nre  earth  exposeil  he  lies, 
With  no*  a  friend  to  ejosc  his  eyes, 
('ilh  dowMc.ist  looks  the  joyless  victor  satA, 
hevidving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  viirifdis  (urns  of  cliance  helow; 
And.  n<iw  anil  lleii  a  si-h  he  stole; 
And  tear'*  htigau  to  How. 


DRY  DEN.  201 


CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soiJ 

Tlie  vaiious  turns  of  chance  below; 

.\nil,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  more, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  ihy  winning, 
Think,  oh,  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  god.-;  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  api)lause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  tlie  cause. 
The  prince,  unal)le  to  conceal  his  pain. 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  lengtii,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


The  prince,  luiabled  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  .'■ighed  aL^iin: 
At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  upjiressed, 
The  vantiuished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleei>  asunder. 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thundeTc 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  uj)  his  head: 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge !  revenge !  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  furies  arise ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hairl 
And  the  sparkles  that  Hash  from  their  eyes  I 


202  DRYDEN. 


Bt'huhl  a  lihastly  ham.!. 
Each  a  torcli  in  liis  liuiid! 
Those  aiv  (iit'cian  ulii>-<ts.  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
Anil  uiiliiirii'd  ivmain, 
Infill) lions  on  the  i)lain: 
Give  the  vengeanee  ilno 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  tht-v  lossthrir  torches  on  high, 
How  they  i>oint  to  the  Persian  abodes. 
And  gliltfrlMi;  temples  of  tlieir  hostile  gods 
The  i)rinct's  apjiland  with  a  furious  joy: 
And  tiic  king  seized  a  tIainlH'au  witii  zeal  to  destroy; 
Tiiais  leil  the  way. 
To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  tired  another  Troy! 


And  the  king  seized  a  (iamheau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  lired  another  Troy! 


Thus  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  lullmvs  learned  to  lilow. 
While  organs  yet  were  mule; 
Timolheus,  to  his  breathing  Ihile, 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Coidd  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came. 
Invenlress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store. 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  atided  length  to  solemn  sotnids, 
With  nature's  mollier-wil,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Lei  old  Timolheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

OUAM>   CIIOUUH. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Invenlress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  entliusinst.  from  her  sacred  store, 

EulaiL'ed  the  foiiuer  narrov\  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solenui  sounds. 
With  iiaiuie's  mother-wit.  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timr)theus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 


DRYDEN.  203 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.    CECILIA'S  DAY. 

From  hannony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began: 

When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

"  Arise,  ye  more  than  dead." 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began: 
From  harmony  to  harmony. 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  corded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell. 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
vVith  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  tlic  thundering  drum 

Cries,  "  Hark!  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  letreat." 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovei's 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers. 
Whose  tlirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Shar]i  violins  complain 
Their  jealous  jiangs  and  desperation. 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  li-'igbt  of  passion, 
For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 
Hut  oil!  what  art  can  teach, 
Wiiat  buinan  voice  can  reach, 
The  sacred  organ's  jiraise  ? 
Notes  insjiiring  holy  love, 
Notes  tliat  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


•J04 


DRTDEN. 


()ri>liiiis  cdiild  lead  tlu'  savage  race; 
Ami  trees  uprooti'd  It-ft  tlu^ir  plart>. 

S«M|iiati(m.s  of  tlif  lyit": 
But  liriLrlit  ("t'cilia  raisnl  the  woiuii-r  hijiber 
Wlifii  lo  hiT  oriran  vocal  l)rfatli  was  j^iven, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straii^'lit  ai)j)earc'd 

Mistaking  earth  for  lieaveii. 

<iHANI)   CIU>KLS. 

As  fnini  the  iH)\ver  of  saered  lays 

The  spheres  began  lo  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  aliove; 
So  wh«'n  the  last  and  di»  aiH'ul  hour 
This  (Miunhling  i)ageant  shall  tlevour, 
The  li'iiiii]>el  shall  lie  heard  on  high. 
The  di-ad  shall  live,  tin-  living  die. 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  skv. 


UA'iJK/:  TiiK  roirn.'.tiT  of  joiix 

MILTOS. 
[I'rcllXfil  U>  '■  Piirailise  Lfist."] 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages 
born, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  l.UL'land,  did 
adorn. 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  sur- 
passed ; 

The  next  in  niajestv;  in  both  the 
last. 

The  force  of  nature  eouhl  no  further 
go: 

To  make  a  I  bird,  she  joined  the 
fornu'r  twt). 


[/■'nun  Itrliqio  l.airi.] 

Tin:  IK  HIT  or  itK.isoy. 

Dim  as  tlie  borrowed  beams  of  moon 

and  slai-s 
To  lonely,   wean.',   wandering  tnivel- 

liMS, 

Is  reason  to  the  sold:  and  iix  on  higli. 

Those  rolling  lires  discover  but  the 
sky. 

Not  light  us  here;  so  Ke.ison's  glim- 
mering ray 

Was  lent,  not  to  assure  our  doubtful 
way. 


Hut  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 
And  as  these  niiibtly  tajiei-sdisappear, 
When  day's  brighl  lord  ascends  our 

hemisphere; 
So  pale  L;r()ws  Keason   at   Ueligion's 

sight; 
•So  dies,  and  so  dissolves  in  sujiernat- 

ural  light. 


(  /-'rom  III  li(iio  l.aici.\ 

riih:  iniiLK. 

Ik  on  the   I'ook   itself  we  cjist  our 
view. 

("oncuirent    heathens  i>rove  the  story 
true: 

The  doctrine,  miracles;  which  must 
convince. 

For  Heaven    in  them  appeals  to  hu- 
man sense: 

AntI  though  they  prove  not,  they  con- 
tirm  the  cause. 

When  what  is  t.iughl  agnws  with  na- 
ture's laws. 
Then  for  the  si  vie.    majestic  and 
divine. 

It  speaks  no  less  than  (Jod    in  every 
line: 

Commandinu'  words,   whose  force   is 
still  the  same 

As   the  llrst    Hat    that    produced    our 
fniiiK'. 


DRY  DEN. 


205 


All  faiths  beside,  or  did  by  arms  as- 

ivnd, 
Or  si'iise 'Indulged  has  made  mankind 

their  friend ; 
This  only  doctrine  does  our  lusts  op- 

])ose: 
Unfed  by  nature's  soil,  in  which  it 

grows; 
Cross  to  our  interests,  curbing  sense 

and  sin; 
Oppressed  without,  and  imdermined 

within, 
It  thrives  '.h^imgh  pain;  its  own  tor- 

iiK'iitors  tires; 
And  witli   a  stubborn  patience  still 

aspires. 
To  what  can  Keasoia  such  effects  as- 
sign 
Transcending    nature,    but   to  laws 

divine '? 
Wliich    in    that  sacred  volume  are 

'ontiiined; 


[From  n<'!ifiio  Laid.] 

THE  Aro//)A\<>:  or  i!/:l/owus 
i)isi'iT!:s. 

A  THOUSAND  daily  sects  rise  up  and 
die; 

A  thousand  more  the  perished  race 
supply; 

So  all  we  make  of  Heaven's  discov- 
ered will. 

Is,  not  to  have  it,  or  to  use  it  ill. 

The  danger's   uuich   the   same;   on 
several  shelves 

If  others  wreck  us,  or  wo  wreck  our- 
selves. 
What  then  remains,  but,  waiving 
each  extreme, 

The  tide  of  ignorance  and   pride  to 
stem  ? 

Neither  so  rich  a  treasure  to  forego, 

Nor  proudly  seek  beyond  our  power 
to  know : 


8uffirii-nt,  clear,  and  for  that  use  or-   Faith  is   not  built   on    <lisquisitions 


dained. 


[From  L'e/igio  Laid.] 
JUDGMENT  IN  ST  U  DYING  IT. 

PifE  uidettered  (Christian,  who  be- 
lieves in  gross, 

rMods  on  to  heaven,  and  ne'er  is  at  a 
loss: 

For  the  strait-gate  Avould  be  made 
straiter  yet, 

W'i've.  none  adniitted  there  but  men 
of  wit. 

'i'hc  f"\v  by  nature  formed,  with 
learning  fraught. 

Born  to  instruct,  as  others  to  be 
taught. 

Must  .study  well  the  sacred  page:  and 
see 

Which  doctrine,  this  or  that,  doth 
best  agree 

Witli  the  whole  tenor  of  the  work  di- 
vine; 

And  plainliest  points  to  Heaven's  re- 
vealed design : 

Which  exposition  Hows  from  genuine 
sense; 

And  whieli  is  forced  l)y  wit  and  elo- 
quence. 


The  things  we  must  believe  are  few 

auil  i)iain : 
But  siiiee  men  will  Ijelieve  more  than 

they  iu-e>!. 
And  evei'y  man  will  make  himself  a 

creed. 
In  doubtful  questions  'tis  the  safest 

way 
To  learn  what  unsuspected  ancients 

say : 
For  'tis  not.  likely  we  shonKl  higher 

soar 
In  search   of    Heaven,  ihim  all  the 

Church  before: 
Nor  can  we  be  deceived,  unless  we 

see  Igrce. 

The  Scripture  and  the  Fathers  ilisa- 
If  after  all  they  stand  suspected  .still, 
(For  no  man's  faith   diqiends  rqion 

his  will ;) 
'Tis    some    relief,    that    points    not 

clearly  known. 
Without    nuK'li    iiazard   may   be  let 

alone: 
And  after  hearing  what  our  Church 

can  say. 
If  still  our  reason  runs  another  way, 
That  private  reiison  'tis  more  just  to 

eurl),  Mislurb. 

I  'I'liati  i>v  disputes  the   public   peace 


206 


DRY  DEN. 


For  points  obscure  are  of  small  use 
to  learn ; 

But  coiuincjn  quiet  is  mankind's  con- 
cern. 


\Frcm  Eleonora.] 
A    WIFE. 

A  wiFi:  as  tender,  and  as  true 
vs'iihal, 

As  the  first  woman  was  before  her 
fall: 

Made  for  the  man,  of  whom  she  was 
a  part; 

Made  to  attract  his  eyes,  and  keep 
his  heart. 

A  second  Kve,  but  by  no  crime  ac- 
cursed ; 

As  beauteous,  not  as  brittle  as  the 
first. 

Had  she  been  first,  still  Paradise  had 
been, 

And  death  had  found  no  entrance  by 
her  sin. 

So  she  nut  only  had  j)reserve(l  from  ill 

Her  sex  and  ours,  but  lived  their  pat- 
tern still. 


\Vrom  /•UiiiHora.] 
CIlAIilTY 

Want  passed  for  merit  at  her  ojien 

dour: 
I'faven  saw.  he  safely  might  increase 

liis  poor. 
And  trust  I  heir  sustenance  with  lier 

.so  well, 
As  not  to  be  at  charge  of  miracle. 
None  could  \w.  needy,  whom  she  .saw 

or  knew; 
All  in  I  he  eompass  of  her  sphere  she 

<lrew. 
He,  whoeould  touch  herpannent,  was 

as  sure. 
As  the  first  (  hristians  of  the  apostles' 

cure. 
The  ilistHnt  he.-ird,  bv  tame,  her  ]iio\is 

d Is, 

Anil  laid  her  up  for  their  extremest 

needs; 


A  future  cordial  for  a  fainting  min<«; 
For,  what  was  ne'er  refused,  all  hopi  1 

to  find. 
Each    in    his   turn,    the   rieJi   might 

freely  come. 
As  to  a  friend;  but  to  the  poor, 'twas 

home. 
As  to  some  holy  house  the  alllicted 

came, 
The  hunger-st.irved,  the  naked  and 

the  lame;  , 

Want  and   disease  both   fied   before 

her  name,  , 

For  zeal  like  hers  her  servants  were 

too  slow ; 
She  was  the  first,  where  need  required . 

to  go; 
Herself  the  foundress  and  attendant 

too. 


[From  F.lennora.] 

BEAUTIFUL  DEATH. 

As  precious  gums  are  not  for  last- 
ing lire. 
They   but    jierfume  the  temple,  and 

expire: 
So  was   she   socm  exhaled  and  van- 
ished hence; 
A  short  sweet  odor  of  a  v:i8t  ejcpense. 
.She  vanisheil.   we  can   si'areely   say 

she  died: 
For  but  a  now  did  he^iveu  and  earth 

divide: 
She    passed    serenely    with   a   single 

breath; 
This  monieni  perfect  health,  the  next 

was  death: 
One  sigh  did  her  elernal  bliss  assure; 
.So   little  peii.ime   needs,  when   souls 

are  almost  jiure. 
.\s  gentle  dreams  our  waking  thoughts 

pursue; 
<  >r.  one  dream  iiasse<J,  we  slide  into  a 

new ; 
.So  close  they  follow,  such  wild  ord<!r 

keep," 
We  think  ourselves  awake,  and  are 

aslee|i: 
.So  soflly  dealli  sueei-eded  life  in  her: 
.Shedid  l>iu  dream  of  heaven,  and  she 

waa  there. 


jJtiXlJtiN. 


207 


No  pains  she  suffered,  nor  expired 

with  noise; 
Her    soul   was   whispered    out   with 

God's  still  voice; 
As  an  old   friend  is  beckoned  to  a 

feast, 
And    treated    like    a    long-familiar 

guest. 
He  took  her  as  he  found,  but  found 

her  so, 
As  one  in  hourly  readiness  to  go: 
E'en  on  that  day,  in  all  her  trim  pre- 
pared ; 
As  early  notice  she  from  heaven  had 

heard ; 
And  some  descending  courier  from 

above  |move; 

Had  given  her  timely  warning  to  re- 
Or  counselled  her  to  dress  the  nuptial 

room. 
For  on  that  night  the  bridegroom  was 

to  come. 
He    kept  his   hour,  and   found   her 

where  she  lay 
Clothed  all  in  white,  the  livery  of  the 

day; 
Scarce  had  she  sinned  in  thought,  or 

word,  or  act; 
Unless  omissions  were  to  pass  for 

fact: 
That    hardly    death    a  consequence 

could  draw, 
To  make  her  liable  to  nature's  law. 
And,  that  she  died,  we  only  have  to 

show 
The  mortal  part  of  her  she  left  be- 
low: 
The  rest,  so  smooth,  so  suddenly  she 

went. 
Looked  like  translation  through  the 

firmament. 


[From  The  Character  of  a  Good  /'arson. ] 
THE  MODEL   PREACHER, 

Ykt  of  his  little   he  had   some  to 

span\ 
To  feed  tbii  famished  and  to  clothe 

ilip  l)are: 
For  morfifioil  he  was  to  that  degree, 
A  poorer  than  himself  he  would  not 

see. 


True  priests,  he  said,  and  preachers 

of  the  word, 
Were  only  stewards  of  their  sovereign 

Lord; 
Nothing  was  theirs;  but  all  the  public 

store : 
Intrusted  riches,  to  relieve  the  poor. 

The  proud  he  tamed,  the  penitent 

he  cheered ; 
Nor    to    rebuke    the    rich    offender 

feared ; 
His  preaching  much,  but  more  his 

practice  wrought 
(A  living  sermon  of  the  truths  he 

taught); 
For  this  by  rules  severe  his  life  he 

squared, 
That    all    might    see   the    doctrines 

which  they  heard. 
For  priests,  he  said,  are  patterns  for 

the  rest; 
(The  gold  of   heaven,  who  bear  the 

God  impressed) ; 
But  when  the  precious  coin  is  kept 

imclean. 
The  sovereign's  image  is  no  longer 

seen. 
If  tliey  be  foul  on  which  the  people 

trust. 
Well  may  the  baser  brass  contract  a 

rust. 


\^From  Absalom  and  Achitnphel.] 
THE    WIT. 

A  FIERY  soul,  whii'li,  working  out  Its 

way. 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay, 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of 

'•lay. 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity; 
IMcascd    with  the  danger,   when  the 

waves  went  high 
lie  sought  the  storms;  but.  for  a  calm 

unlit. 
Would    st(>er  too   nigh  the  sands   to 

lioast  his  wit. 
(ircal  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near 

allied. 
Anil  thin  jiartitions  do  their  bounds 

divide. 


liua 


DUyjLli:  —  t'A!<TMA,V. 


William    Dunbar. 


ALL  E.iiirm.Y  JOY  j!f:rii;.\s  /.v  j'.u.v. 

AVas  lie viT  siuli  (1  rout  but  ance  oam« 
ILwK    mind    that  age   aye   follows  rain; 

youiii;  I  All  larllily  joy  ntnrns  in  pain, 

OfHtli  follows  life  with  gaping  mouth,  | 
Devouring  fruit  and  llowering  grain 


.1//  vnrUily  joy  reUirnx  in  pain. 

Cinie   never  yet  May  so  fresh  and 

^^reeii. 
iiul  January  came  as  wud  and  keen; 


Since  earthly  joy  abydis  never, 
Work    for    the    joy   that  lasts    for- 

evei-; 
For  other  joy  Is  all  but  vain : 
.!//  I'urtlili/  joij  ntunin  in  jitiin. 


Charles  Gamage   Eastman. 


A  .syo}r-sTOi:.\f. 

'Tis  a  fearful   night  in   the   winter 
time. 
As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be; 
Tlie.  roar  oi  the  blast  is  heard  like 
the  eliiiUi' 
Of  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea. 
'llii-  MioDii  is  full,  Iiut  her  silver  light 
The  storm  dashes  out  with  its  wings 

to-night; 
Andover  the  sky  from  south  t(j  north. 
Not  a  .star  is  .seen  as  the  wind  comes 
forth 
In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 

All  ilav  had  the  snow  come  down  — 
all  ilay 
As  It  never  came  down  before; 
And  over  tin-  hills,  at  sunset,  lay 

.Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more; 
The  feni-e  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of 

stone; 
The  windows  blocked  and   the  well- 

eml)s  gnne; 
The  haystack  had  grown  to  a  moun- 
tain lift, 
.\nd    the    wood-pile    lunked    like    a 
monster  drift, 
j\H  ii  lay  by  tin*  farmer's  dcwir. 

Tne  ni^bt  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow, 
While  II,    ait  grows  sliarp  and  chill, 


And  the   w.irning  mar  c>f  a  fearful 
blow 
Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill; 
And  the  Norther,  see!  on  the  motm- 

lain  jieak 
In  his  breath  bow  the  old  trees  writhe 

and  sbrii'k! 
lie  shouts  on  the  plain,  ho  ho!  ho  hot 
II<'  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blind- 
ing snow. 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 

.Such   a   night  as   this   to   lu>   found 

abroad. 

In  the  drifts  and  the  frcti/.ing  air. 

Lit  s  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  lield,  by 

the  road. 

With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair. 

lie  shuts  his  eyes  to  tht  wiiul  and 

growls; 
He   lifts    bis   head,  and   moans  and 
bowls;  |sleet, 

Then  I'touebing  low,  from  the  cutting 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  ((iiiverlng 
fe.'t  — 
Tray  what  «loes  the  «log  do  there? 

A  farmer  came  from  the  villaire  ])lnin, 
lllll   be  lost  llie  tr.ivelled  Way; 

And    for   boms   be   trod    with  might 
and  main 
A  path  tor  Ids  horse  an«l  sleigh; 


EhlOT. 


20S 


But  colder  still  the  cold  vviiuls  blew , 
And    deeper    still    the    deep    drifts 

^rrew, 
And   his   mare,  a  heaiUiful  Morgan 

l)ro\vn, 
At  last  in  her  struggles  Houiidered 

down, 
Where  a  log  in  a  hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied 
snort. 
She  plung(>d  in  the  drifting  snow, 
While    her    nuisfer    urged,    till    his 
l)reatii  grew  short, 
With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow; 
But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs 

w  ere  tight ; 
His  hands  w»'re  luuub  and  had  lost 

their  might: 
So  he  wallowed  back  to  his  half-filled 

sleigh, 
And  strove  to«helter  himself  till  day. 
With  his  coat  and  buffalo. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of 

the  rein, 
To  roust!  up  his  dying  steed; 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast 

in  vain 
For  helj)  in  his  master's  need, 
for  awhile  he  strives  with  a  wistful 

cry 
To  catch  a  glance  from  his  drowsy 

eye, 


And  wags  his  tail  when  the  rude  wind? 

llap 
The  skirt  of  the  buffalo  over  his  lap. 
And  whines  that  lie  takes  no  IhhmI. 

The  wind  goes  down  and  the  storm 
is  o'er  — 
'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight  past; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  mort 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast. 
The  silent  moon  w  ith   her  peacefu" 

light 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow 

all  white. 
And   the  giant   shadow  of  Camel's 
Ilump,  [stump. 

The    blasted    pine  and  the  ghostly 
Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead  hy  the  hidd(!n  log 
Are  tliey  who  came  from  tiie  town : 

The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faith- 
ful dog. 
And  his  lieautiful  Morgan  brown  . 

In    the   wide   snow-desert,   far    and 
grand. 

With  his  cap  on  his  head  and   the 
reins  in  his  hand, 

The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's 
feet, 

And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the 
crusted  sleet. 
Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered 
down. 


George  Eliot  (Marian  Evans  Cross). 


0  MAY  I   ,101 K  THE   CHOIR 
IWlSlIiLE. 

O  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of    these    immortal    dead   who  live 

again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  pres- 
ence; live 
In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
Of    miserable    aims    tliat   end  with 

self. 
In  lliouglits  sublime  that  i)ieree,  the 
night  like  stars, 


And  with  their  mild  ix'rsistence  urgo 

men's  minds 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 
Breathing  a   beauteous    order,    that 

controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life 

of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed  and 

agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred 

despair. 


210 


ELLIOT. 


Rebellious  flesh   that   wuuM    not    be 

subdiifil, 
A   vicious   parent  shaming  still   its 

child,  1  sol  veil; 

Poor  anxious  i>cnitence,  is  quick  ilis- 
Its    disconls  (|ut'nched    by  meeting 

harniouifs. 
Die  in  llic  largi-  and  charitable  air. 
An<l  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning 

sonjr. 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of 

the  world. 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  Ije  better, —  saw 

within 
A  worthiiT  imaije  for  the  sanctuary. 
Anil  shajit'd  it  forth  before  tin-  mul- 

titudi-, 
Divint'ly  human,  niising  worship  so 
To    hi^liii-    ifvcrenrc    more    mixed 

witii  love, —  jTimt- 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human 


Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  humac 

sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the 

tomb, 
Unreatl  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come 
Which    martyred    men    have    made 

more  glorious 
For  us,  who  strive  to  follow. 

May  I  reach 
That    purest    heavt-n, —  be  to  otlur 

souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great 

agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feeil  pure 

love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty. 
l{e  the  sweet  presence  of  a  gooil  tlif- 

fused. 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible, 
Whose  nuisic  is  the  gladness  of  the 

world. 


Jane   Elliot. 

THE   FLOW E US  OF   TIIK    FOIiEST. 

Vw.  heard  the  lilting  at  tmr  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  .i-lillint;  before  the  dawn  of  day; 
Ihil  now  ihey  are  moaninii  on  ilka  green  loaning  — 

The  Flowenj  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wcde  away. 

At  buchts,  in  the  moniing.  nae  blithe  lads  are  seorning, 
'I'he  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowii',  and  wae; 

N..e  dalliii'.  nae  galiliin',  but  siyliinu  and  sabl)ini;. 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglen  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst.  at  the  shearinix.  nae  youths  now  are  jeerinflr, 
Tlie  liaiidsters  are  lyart.  and  nmkled.  and  K'-'iy ; 

At  fair,  oral  iireaehini;.  nae  wooinu.  nae  fleeehing  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  arc  a"  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  at  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming, 
'Hout  st.ieks  wi'  the  lasses  at  boi^le  to  i>lay; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie.  lainentinu  her  deari<  — 
'Ihe  Flowers  of  the  Forest  an-  a'  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the  border 
Tlie  Knu'lisb,  for  anee,  liy  jjuile  wan  the  day: 

The  Flowers  of  tiie  Forest,  that  foiiehl  nye  the  foremos). 
The  prime  u'  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  cluy. 


ELLIOTT. 


21  ( 


We  Lear  nae  niair  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 
VVomon  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae; 

Sigliing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


Ebenezer  Elliott. 


POOR  ANDREW. 

Thk  loving  poor!  —  So  envy  calls 

The  ever-toiling  poor: 
But   oh!    1   choke,  my  heart  grows 
faint, 

When  I  approach  my  door ! 
Behind  it  there  are  living  things, 

\Vhos(;  silent  frontlets  say 
They'd  rather  see  me  out  than  in, — 

Feet  foremost  borne  away  I 
My  heart  grows  sick  when  home  I 
come, — 

May  God  the  thought  forgive' 
If  'tw  ere  not  for  my  dog  and  ca. , 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 

My  dog  and  cat,  when  I  come  home, 

Run  out  to  welcome  me, — 
She  mewing,  with  her  tail  on  end, 

While  wagging  liis  comes  he. 
They  listen  for  my  homeward  steps. 

My  smothered  sob  they  hear, 
When  down  my  heart  sinks,  deathly 
down. 

Because  my  home  is  near. 
My  heart  grows  faint  when  home  I 
come, — 

May  God  the  thought  forgive! 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 

I'd  rather  be  a  happy  bird. 

Than,  scorned  and  loathed,  a  king; 
Hut  man  should  live  while  for  him 
lives 

The  meanest  loving  tiling. 
Thou  busy  bee!  how  (-anst  thou  choose 

So  far  and  wide  to  roam  ? 
O  blessed  i)ee!  thy  glad  wings  say 

Thou  hast  a  hapjiy  home! 
But  I.  wiieu  I  eonK'lioiiie.— ()  God! 

Wilt  tiiou  the  thouglit  foruive  ? 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 


Why  come  they  not  ?    They  do  no! 
come 

My  breaking  heart  to  meet! 
A  heavier  darkness  on  me  falls, — 

]  cannot  lift  my  feet. 
Oh,  yes,  they  come!  —  they  never  fail 

To  listen  for  my  sighs; 
My   poor   heart    brightens   when    it 
meets 

The  sunshine  of  their  eyes. 
Agam  they  come  to  meet  me, —  God! 

Wilt  thou  the  thought  forgive  ? 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

1  think  1  could  not  live. 

This  heart  is  like  a  churchyard  stone; 

My  home  is  comfort's  grave; 
My  playful  cat  and  honest  dog 

Are  all  the  friends  1  have; 
And    yet    my   house    is    filled 
friends, — 

But  foes  they  seem,  and  are. 
\Miat  makes  them  hostile  ? 

H.Wf'E; 

Then  let  me  not  despair. 
Hut  oh!  I  sigh  when  home  I  come,— 

May  God  the  thought  forgive 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat 

1  think  I  could  not  live. 


with 


Igno- 


TIIE   PRESS. 

G()/>  said, —  "Let  there  be  light!" 
(irim  darkness  felt  his  might. 
And  fled  away; 
Then    startled    seas   and    mountains 

cold 
Shone  fortli,  all  brii^hi    in  blue  and 

L'old, 

An<l  (lied,— '"Tis  day!  'tis  day!' 
"  Flail,  holy  light!"  exclaimed 
The  tbiuidemus  cloud  that  flamed 
O'er  vlaisies  white; 


212 


ELLIOTT. 


And  lo!  the  rose,  in  crimson  dressed. 
Leaned  sweetly  on  the  lilys  l)reast ; 
And,      bhisiiing,     uiuruiured, — 
"Light!" 
Then  was  ihe  sl\ylark  horn; 
Tlien  rose  the  enihattled  corn; 
1  Inn  llootis  of  i>raise 
Flowed  o'er  the  snnny  hills  of  noon; 
And  tinn,  in  stillest  night,  the  moon 
I'onred  forth  her  pensive  lays. 
Lo.  heaven's  bright  how  is  glad! 
Lo,  trees  and  llowers,  all  clad 
In  glory,  bloom! 
And  sliall  the  inorlal  sons  of  God 
lie  senseless  as  llie  trodden  elod, 
And  darker  than  I  he  tomb? 
N<j,  liy  I  he  lubtd  of  man! 
IJy  the  swart  artisan! 

lly  (;od,  our  sire! 
Our  souls  have  holy  light  within; 
And  every  form  of  grief  and  sin 
Shalfsee  and  feel  its  (ire. 
15y  earth,  and  hell,  and  Inaven, 
'I'lie  shn»nd  of  souN  is  riven! 
Mind,  nund  alone 
Is  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  power! 
Earth's    (ieei»est     night,    from     this 
b|e>.M'd  hour. 
The  night  of  mintls,  is  gone? 
'•  The  Tress!  "  all  lands  shall  sing; 
'I'he  Press,  the  Press  we  bring, 
All  lands  to  bless: 
Oh,  jallid  Want!     Oh,  Labor  stark! 
Behold  we  i)ring  the  second  ark! 
The  I'ress!  the  I'le^s!  Ilni  Press! 


THE  I'OF.rs  /'/;.(  Yl.i:. 

Ai.MUJUTV     Father!    let    thy    lowiv 
child. 
Strong   in   his   h»ve    of    triilh,   be 
wisely  b<»ld, — 
A  patriot  bard.  Iiy  sy<'Ojihanl-' reviled. 
Let  him  live  n.>i<-ful)y,  and  not  die 
old! 
Let  jioor  men's  ehildnn.  pleased  to 
read  his  lavs,  j 

Ixive.  for  hit  sake,  the  scenes  where 
hv  iialii  Ixicn,  I 


Ami  when  he  ends  his  pilgrimage  of 
days. 
Let  him  Ite  buried  where  the  gnusa 
is  green. 
Where    daisies,    blooming    earliest, 
linger  late 
To  liear  the  bee  his  busy  note  pro- 
long: 
There  let  him  sliunber,  and  in  ]>eaoo 
await 
The  dawning  morn,  far  from  the 
sensual  throng, 
Wiio  si'orn   the   windflower's  blush, 
the  redlireasi's  lomdy  song. 


SOT  FOI!  XAVaflT. 

Do  and  suffer  naught  in  vain; 

Let  no  tritle  trilling  be! 
If  the  salt  of  life  is  pain. 

Let  even    wrongs   bring   good    lo 
thee; 
(Jood  to  others  few  or  many, — 
(Jood  to  all,  or  goo<l  lo  any. 

If  men  curse  thee,  plant  their  lies 
Where   for  truth    they   best   may 
grow ; 

Let  the  r.iilers  make  thee  wise. 

Preaching  jieaco  where'er  thou  gol 

(iod  no  Useless  plant  hath  planted, 

Kvil  —  wisely  used  —  is  waiUed. 

1  f  t  he  nat  ion-feeding  corn 
'llirivcth  under  iced  snow  ; 

If  the  small  liii-cl  on  tlie  thorn 
Isetb  \vell  its  gnanled  sloe, — 

liid  lliy  e:ires  thy  comforts  doidile, 

(Jatlier  fruit  from  thorns  of  troublr, 

.See  Die  rivers!  bow  they  nm. 
Strom,'    in    gloom,   and   si  mug   in 
light! 
Like  the  never-Wearied  sim, 
Throimh  the  day  and   through  th4 
ni'ilil, 
1  .icb  alonu  his  ]iatli  of  duty. 
Turning  coldness  into  beauty 


EMERSON. 


213 


Ralph  Waldo   Emerson. 


ODE. 

0  TENDKRi.Y  the  hauglUy  day 
Fills  his  hhie  urn  with  dre; 

One  morn  is  in  tlie  mighty  heaven, 
And  one  in  our  desire. 

The   cannon  booms  from    town   to 
town, 
Our  pidses  are  not  less, 
The    joy-bells    chime    their   tidings 
down, 
Which  children's  voices  bless. 

For  he  tliat  flung  the  broad  blue  fold 
O'er  mantling  land  and  sea. 

One  third  part  of  the  sky  unrolled 
For  the  banner  of  the  free. 

The  men  are  ripe  of  Saxon  kind 

To  build  an  equal  state, — 
To  take  the  statute  from  the  mind, 

And  make  of  duty  fate. 

United  States!  the  ages  plead, — 
I'rcsent  and  past  in  under-song, — 

Go  put  your  creed  into  your  deed, 
Nor  speak  with  double  tongue. 

For  sea  and  land  don't  understand, 
\or  skies  without  a  frown 

See  rights  for  which  the  one  hand 
fights 
By  the  other  cloven  down. 

Be  just  at  home ;  then  WTite  your  sci'oll 

Of  honor  o'er  the  s<>a. 
And  bid  the  broad  Atlantic  roll 

A  ferry  of  the  free. 

And.  henceforth,  there  shall  be  no 
•  liain. 
Save  underneath  the  sea 
The  wires  shall  nun-mur  through  the 
main 
Sweet  songs  of  Liberty. 

The  conscious  stars  accord  above. 

The  waters  wild  below. 
And  under,  throu-^h  the  cable  wove, 

Ilur  (iery  errands  go. 


Fur  he  that  worketh  high  and  wise, 

Xor  pauses  in  his  plan, 
Will  take  the  sun  out  of  the  skies 

Ere  freedom  out  of  man. 


THE   P/!0/i/.E.V. 

I  LIKE  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 
I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul; 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall   like   sweet   strains,   or  pensive 

smiles; 
Yet  not  foi-  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  1  that  cowletl  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  1  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
Ilis     awful     Jove     young    Phidias 

brought, 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning,  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
The  bin-dens  of  the  Bible  old; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came, 
[  liike  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
l^p  from  the  burning  core  l)elow, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe; 
The  hand  that  roimded  Peter's  dome, 
Anil  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian 

Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 
Iliiuself  fi'om  Ood  lu>  could  not  free; 
He  Ijuilded  better  than  he  knew;  — 
'J'he  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Knowest  thou  what  wove  yon  wood 

bird's  nest 
r>f    leaves,   and    feathers  from  her 

breast  ? 
<  )r  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
I'aintinu  with  morn  each  annual  cell! 
Or  how  tlie  sacred  ])ine-lree  adds 
'i'o  lier  old  leaves  new  myriads? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  i)iles, 
\\  hilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parlhenoa 
As    the  best  gem  upon  her  zone; 


214 


EMKRSON. 


And  morning ojies  with  haxtf  li<Tlids, 
lu  giv/A'  n\mi\  tilt'  ryianiids; 
()"cr  England's  alilxys  iicnds  the  sky. 
As  on  its  frifiids,  with  kindivd  eyo; 
For  out  ot  thuiighl's  inlt'iiur  si)ln'it', 
'I'hi'se  wondfis  rust!  to  uppiT  air; 
And  naliUf  gladly  gave  tlu'ni  phicc, 
Ad<>i»tt'd  llit-ni  into  licr  race, 
And  gniiilfil  tlu-ui  an  fiiual  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

Thes«    temples   grew   as   grows   the 

grass ; 
Art  might  ohey,  hut  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
'I'tj     the    vast    soul     that    o'er    him 

]danned; 
Ami  the  same  power  that  reared  the 

shrine 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Kver  the  fiery  Penteeost 
(iirds  with  one   flame  the  countless 

host. 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting 

choirs, 
And  through  tlie  priest  the  mind  in- 
spires. 
The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
\\'as  writ  on  tai)lcs  yet  unhrokcn; 
'i'he  word  i»y  seers  or  sil)yls  told. 
In  groves  of  oak.  or  fanes  of  gold. 
Still  lluats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  aci'cnt  of  the  Holy  (ihost 
The  heedless  worlil  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, — 
Till-  l!ni)k  ilsflf  hefon-  nie  lies, 
Old  ( 'hrysostom.  hesl  Augustine, 
And  he  who  hlmt  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  (iolilen  Lijm  or  nnnes, 
Taylor,  the  .Shakespeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  uuisic  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  eowleil  portrait  dear; 
.Vnd  yet,  fur  all  his  fuilh  could  see, 
1  would  not  thi;  gtxxl  bishop  be. 


77/A-    lUKUxHtA. 

In  .May.  when  sea-winds  jdereed  our 

solitudes, 
I    found    the    fresh    IMiodora   in   the 

wo(mIh, 


•Spreading    its   leafless   blooms   in   a 

dam)>  nook. 
To  jdciiiie  the  desert  and  the  sluggish 

brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool. 
Made    tin-    black    water   with    their 

beauty  gay; 
Here   might    the    red-bird    come    his 

plumes  to  cool. 
And  cc>urt  the   tlowei    thai   clu-apens 

his  array. 
Ilhodoral  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm   is  wasted  on  the  earth 

and  sky. 
Dear,    tell    them,   that  if  eyes  were 

made  for  seeing, 
'i'hen   beauty   is  its  own  e.xcuse  for 

being:    • 
Why  thou  wert  there,  oh,  rival  of  the 

r«jse ! 
1  nevtr  Ihouirht  tojtsk.  1  never  knew: 
Hut  in  my  -iniple  ignoiance,  suppose 
The  selfsame  ]io\\er  that  bioutzht    nw. 

there,  brought  you. 


rni:  iir.uin.KHEE. 

Hi  la.Y,  dozing  luunbli'-hee, 
\\  here  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
l-ei  them  sail  for  I'orlo  Ki(pie, 
Kar-otV  he.its  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone. 
Thou  animated  lorrid-/one! 
/igzag  slerrcr.  di-.cii  cheerer, 
Li'l  me  cliiise  iliy  waving  lines: 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  ln'arer, 
Sinijing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  •)f  the  siui, 
.loy  of  iby  dominion! 
.Sailor  of  ihr  aliuosphere; 
Swimmer  ibroiigh  the  waves  of  air; 
N'ovager  of  lii;bl  and  noon; 
Kpii'urean  of  .lune; 
Wail,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  e.irshni  i.f  ihf  hinn, — 
.Ml  wiihoui  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  lia/e 
Silvers  the  horl/on  wall. 
Anil,  with  softness  li)ucbing  all, 


EMERSON. 


215 


Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  color  of  romance, 
And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets. 
Thou,  in  simny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods. 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  coimtless  sunny  hours, 
r^ong  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers : 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure, 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells. 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodils. 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high. 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey. 
Scented  fern  and  agrimony. 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue. 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  pictvue  as  he  jtassed. 


AViser  far  than  human  seer, 
Vellow-breeched  philosopher  I 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair. 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet. 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
licave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
Wlien  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deej); 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


CONCORD  FIGHT. 

IjV  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the 
flood, 
Tlieir  ;iag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here    once    the    embattled    farmers 
stood. 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the 
world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  sea- 
ward creeps. 

On    this    green    bank,   by   this  soft 
stream, 
We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 
When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are 
gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To   die,   and   leave   their  children 
free. 
Bid  time  and  nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft   we  raise  to  them  and 
thee. 


FORBEARANCE. 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  with- 
out a  gun  ? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on 
its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and 
pulse  ? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart 
of  trust  ? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior. 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from 
speech  refrained, 

Xobilitv  mori'  Tiobly  to  re])ay  ? 

Oh,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to 
be  thine! 


210 


b'AliEH. 


FREDERIC  William   Faber. 


THE   lUGllT  ML'ST    H'/.V. 

On,  it  is  lianl  to  work  for  Goil, 

To  rise  ati'i  take  his  part 
Upon  tills  l)altio-liel.l  of  earlli. 

And  not  somolimes  lose  lieart  ! 

He  hides  liiniself  so  wondrously, 
As  lliouiili  llien;  \\ere  no  (Joil; 

He  is  least  sen  when  all  the  powers 
( )f  ill  an-  niiisl  abroad. 

Or  he  deserts  lis  at  tin-  hour 

The  li.i,'ht  is  all  hut  lost; 
An<l  seems  to  leave  us  to  oui-selves 

Just  when  we  need  him  most. 

ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease; 
And.  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposi's. 

Ah  I  (iixl  is  other  ih;in  we  think: 

His  ways  are  f.ir  ahove. 
Far    heyond     reason's    height,    and 
reached 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

Workman  of  (Jodl  idi,  lose  not  heart. 

lint  leaiii  what  (Jod  is  like; 
Ami  in  the  darkest  haltle-lield 

Thou  slialt  kniiw  when-  lo  strike. 

Thrice  hlest  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinet  that  can  tell 
That  (;<>d  is  on  tin*  lielil  wlu-n  lie 

Is  mi'si  iiivjsihle. 

Blest,  too,  is  he  who  <-an  divine 
Where  ival  right  doth  lie. 

And    ilares    to    take    ihe    side    thai 
seems 
Wrong  to  man's  hliinlfxld  eye. 

For  riiiht  is  rii;ht.  since  ('.ni\  is  (iod; 

.\nd  riuht  the  day  mu-.l  win; 
To  dnlllil  will  I  he  disloyalty. 

To  falter  wdiild  l)e  sin  I 


II A  US  H  JUDGMENTS. 

()  Con!  whose  thoughts  are  brightest 
liglit. 

Whose  love  runs  always  clear, 
To  whose  kind  wisdom.  >iiining  souls, 

Amid  their  sius.  are  dear, — 

Sweeten  my  hitter-thoughted  heart 

Willi  chaiilv  like  thine. 
Till  self  shall  I"-  the  only  spot 

On  earth  thai  does  not  shine. 

Hard-heartedness    ilwells    not    with 
souls 
Uouiid  wliom  ihinearmsaredrawn: 
And    dark    thoughts    fatle   away    in 
grace. 
Likt'  cloud-spots  in  the  dawn. 

Time  was  when  1  believed  that  wrong 

In  others  to  delect 
Was  i>art  of  Lieiiius,  and  a  gift 

To  eiierish.  not  reject. 

Now.  better  IaU'_'ht  hy  thee.  O  Lonl! 

This  truth  dauns  on  my  mind. 
The  best  elTe<a  of  heavenly  light 

Is  earth's  false  eyes  to  blind. 

He  whom  no  pniise  can  roacli  Is  aye 
.Meii>  least  attempts  a])|)roving; 

Whom  justice  makes  all-niereiful. 
( Mniiiscience  makes  all-loving. 

When  we  ourselves  least  kindly  are. 

We  deem  the  world  unkind: 
Dark  hearts,  in  llowers  where  lioney 

lies, 

( »iily  the  poison  (iiid. 

How  Thou  canst  think  so  well  of  iw, 
Vet  be  the  (Jod  Thou  art. 

Is  darkness  to  my  iiitelleci, 
Ihit  sunshine  to  my  heart. 

\  .t  habits  linger  in  the  sold; 

.More  grace,  O  Lord!  more  grace; 
More  sW4-el  lie  s  f  roiii  thy  loving  heart 

.More  sunshine  from  thy  face' 


FALCOyER. 


217 


LOyV  SPIRITS. 

Fever  and  fret  and  aimless  stir 

And  disappointed  strife, 
All  chatinj,',  iinsuceessfiil  things, 

Make  up  the  sum  of  life. 

Love  adds  anxiety  to  toil, 
And  sameness  doubles  cares, 

While  one  unbroken  chain  of  work 
The  flagging  temper  wears. 

The  light  and  air  are  dulled  with 

smoke ; 
The  streets  resound  with  noise; 
And  the  soul  sinks  to  see  its  peers 
Chasing  their  joyless  joys. 

Voices  are    round    me;    smiles  are 
near; 

Kind  welcomes  to  be  had; 
And  yet  my  spirit  is  alone. 

Fretful,  outworn,  and  sad. 

A  weary  actor,  I  would  fain 

Lie  ijuit  of  my  long  part; 
The  burden  of  uiujuiet  life 

Lies  heavy  on  my  heart. 

Sweet  thought  of  God!  now  do  thy 
work. 
As  thou  hast  done  before; 
Wake  uj),  and  tears  will  wake  with 
thee. 
And  the  didl  mood  be  o'er. 


The  very  thinking  of  the  thought 
Without  or  praise  or  piayer, 

Gives  light  to  know  and  life  to  do, 
Aud  marvellous  strength  to  bear. 

Oh,  there  is  music  in  that  thought, 

Unto  a  heart  unstrung. 
Like  sweet  bells  at  the  evening  time, 

Most  musically  rung. 

'Tis  not  His  justice  or  His  power, 

Beauty  or  blest  abode. 
But  the  mere  unexpanded  thought 

Of  the  eternal  Goil. 

It  is  not  of  His  wondrous  works. 

Not  even  that  He  is; 
Words  fail  it,  but  it  is  a  thought 

Which  by  itself  is  bliss. 

Sweet  thought,  lie  closer  to  my  heart! 

Thus  I  may  feel  thee  near. 
As  one  who  for  his  weapon  feels 

In  some  nocturnal  fear. 

Mostly    in    hoiu's    of    gloom,    thou 
com' St, 

When  sadness  makes  us  lovly. 
As  though  thou  wert  the  echo  sweet 

Of  humble  melancholy. 

I   bless   Thee,   Lord,   for  this   kind 
check 

To  s]nrits  over-free' 
And  for  all  things  tha..  make  me  foaj 

More  helpless  need  of  Thee-' 


William   Falconer. 


[From  The  Shipivreck.] 
WliECKED   fX   TIIK   TEMPEST. 

And  now,  while  winged  with  niin 
from  on  high, 

Throuu'h  'he  rent  cloud  the  ragged 
lightnings  fly, 

.\  fla'^h  (|ui''k  '/lancing  on  the  ner\'es 
of  light,; 

Struck  th'^  pale  helmsman  with  eter- 
nal iiiiiht : 


Quick  to  the  abandoned  wheel  Arion 
came. 

The  ship's  tempestuous  sallies  to  re 
claim. 

Amazed  he  saw  her,  o'er  the  sound- 
ing foam 

Upborne,  to  right  aud  left  distractetl 
roam. 

So  gazed  young  Phaeton,  with  palo 
dismay, 

^Vlu  11.  iiiouiiled  on  the  flaming  caf 
of  day. 


218 


FALCONER. 


With    rash    and    nuplous    hand    the 

striplini,'  trifd 
The  ininioriai  coursers  of  the  sun  to 

guide. 

With  mournful  look  the  seamen 
eyed  the  strand, 

Where  deatli's  inexorable  jaws  ex- 
pand ; 

Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all 
daniicrs  pa^t, 

As,  duml)  with  terror,  they  beheld 
the  last. 

And  now,  lashed  on  by  destiny  se- 
vere. 

With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful 
scene  drew  near! 

The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge 
of  death, 

Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers 
roar  lieneath! 

In  vain,  alas!  the  sacred  shades  of 
yore, 

Wotilii  arm  ilicmind  witli  i)liilosoi>hic 
lore;  (breath. 

In  vain  they'd  teach  us,  at  the  latest 

To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of 
death. 

Even  Zeno's  self,  and  Epictetus  old, 

This  fell  ahvss  had  shuddered  to  be- 
hold." 

Had  So<'rales,  for  godlike  virtue 
famed, 

And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  pro- 
claimed, 

Ueheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  dis- 
tress. 

His  soul  had  tremhled  to  Us  last  re- 
cess ! 

O  yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers 
above. 

This  last  Ireinendous  shock  of  fate 
to  prove! 

riie  totti-ring  fnime  of  reason  yet 
sustain ! 

Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  bruin  ! 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  pn-- 
parecl, 

For  now  the  audacious  .seas  insult 
the  yanl; 

High  o'er  tiie  sldp  they  throw  a  hor- 
riil  shade, 

.\nil  o'er  lier  burst,  in  terrible ca.scad<'. 


Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she 

Hies, 
Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the 

skies. 
Then  headlong  plunging  thiuulers  on 

the  ground. 
Earth  groans,  air  trembles,  aiul  the 

deei)s  lesound  I 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  con<ussion 

feels. 
And  (juivering  with  the  wound,  ii- 

torment  reels; 


Again  she  plunges;  hark!  a  second 
shock 

Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  mar- 
ble rock  I 

Down  on  tlie  vale  of  death,  with  dis- 
mal cries. 

The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll 
their  eyes 

In  wild  despair;  while  yet  another 
stroke. 

With  (iee|)  convulsion,  rends  the  solid 
oak : 

Till,  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal 
cell 

The  lurking  demons  of  destruction 
dwell, 

.Vt  length  asunder  torn  her  frame 

(li\  ides. 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the 
tides. 


[^From  The  Shipirncl:.] 

A  srSSF.T  PI  (TV  HE. 

THK  sun's  iiriglit  orb,  declining  .'ill 
serene, 

Now  glanced  ubli(|uely  o'er  the  wood- 
land sci'ue; 

Creation  smiles  anmnd  ;  on  every 
Hpniy 

I'lie  warbling  birds  exalt  their  even- 
ing lay: 

HIithe  skijiping  o'er  yon  hill,  tlie 
lleecy  train 

Join  the  deei>  chorus  of  the  lowing 
plain; 

The  golden  lime  and  orange  thero 
were  seen 


FAWCETT. 


219 


Ou   fragrant  branches  of  perpetual 

green ; 
The  crystal  streams  that  velvet  mead- 
ows lave, 
To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding 

wave. 
The  glassy  ocean,  hushed,  forgets  to 

roar ; 
But  trembling,  murmurs  on  the  sandy 

shoro ; 
And,  lo!  his  sm-face  lovely  to  behold, 
Glows  in  the  west,  a  sea  of  living 

goldl 
While  all  above  a  thousand  liveries 

gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 


Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy 
plains; 

Above,    beneath,    around,   enchant- 
ment reigns 

While  glowing  Vesper  leads  the  starn' 
train. 

And  Night  slow  draws  her  veil  o'lr 
land  and  main, 

Emerging  clouds  the  azure  east  in- 
vade, 

And  wrap  the  lucid  spheres  in  grad 
ual  shade; 

While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  \ocal 
grove 

With  dying  numbers  time  the  soul  to 
love. 


Edgar   Fawcett. 


IDEALS. 

0  Science,  whose  footsteps  wander, 

Audacious  and  luiafraid, 
Where  the  mysteries  that  men  pon- 
der 
Lie  folded  in  awful  shade, 
Though  you  bring  us,  with  calm  defi- 
ance. 
Dear  gifts  from  the  bourns   you 
wing. 
There  is  yet,  O  undaunted  Science, 
One  gift  that  you  do  not  bring! 

Shall  you  conrjucr  the  last  restriction 

Tiiat  conceals  it  from  you  now. 
And  come  back  with  its  benediction 

Like  an  aureole  on  your  brow  ? 
Shall  you  fly  lo  us,  loamer  daring. 

Past  barriers  of  timr  and  space. 
And  return  from  your  mission  bear- 
ing 

The  light  of  God  on  your  face  ? 

*Ve  know  not.  but  ^^till  can  treasure. 

In  the  yearnings  of  our  susjionse. 
Consolation  we  may  noi  measure 

Hy  the  certitudes  of  Sense. 
For  Life,  as  we  long  and  ([uestion. 

Seems  to  s])eak,  while  it  hurries  by, 
Through  UTulertones  of  suggrslicm 

Immortality's  deep  reply. 


To  ears  that  await  its  token 

Pei-petually  it  strays. 
Indeterminate,  titful,  broken, 

By  the  discords  of  our  days. 
It  pierces  the  grim  disasters 

Of  clamorous  human  Hate, 
And  its  influence  overmasters 

All  the  ironies  of  Fate. 

The  icy  laugh  of  the  scomer 

Cannot  strike  its  echoes  mute; 
It  cleaves  the  moan  of  the  mourner 

Like  a  clear  a^olian  lute; 
At  its  tone  less  clear  and  savage 

Gro\\s  the  anguish  of  farew eil  tears, 
And  its  melody  haunts  the  ravage 

Of  the  desecrating  years. 

Philosophy  builds,  and  spares  not 

Her  (irm.  laboiious  i)Ower, 
But  lier  loidly  edifice  wears  not 

Its  last  aerial  tower. 
For  the  quarries  of  iteason  fail  her 

Ere  the  stmcture's  perfect  scope. 
And  the  stone  that  would  now  avail 
her  [hope. 

Must    be    hewn    from    heights   of 

Hut  Art.  at  her  noblest  glory, 
('an  seem,  to  her  lovers  fond, 

As  divinely  admonitory 
Of  iniinitudes  beyond. 


1-20 


FAl'CETT, 


She  can  beam  ui)on  Earth's  abase- 
inonts 

Like  a  spleiitlor  fhmg  down  sublimo 
Tlirou^cb  va,'iif  yet  (■xalted  oaseiueiits 

From  eU'iiiily  iiiio  lime. 

On  tlie  canvas  of  some  ^reat  paintor 

We  Miay  trace,  in  its  varied  flame. 
Now  leaping  alofi.  now  fainter, 

As  the  moo  1  iii'lifls  tlie  aim. 
Tliat  impnlse  l>y  wliose  rare  lucsence 

His  venluriiiii  bni-li  has  drawn 
Its  hues  from  tlie  illloreseence 

Of  a  far  Elysiaii  dawn. 

An  impassionetl  watelier  sazes 

Where  the  faultless  eurves  eombin-' 
riiai  seulpture's  miiihtier  phases 

lm]M'rially  enshrine. 
Ami  lie  feels  that  by  strange  election 

The  artificer's  genius  wrought 
(•'rom  the  marble  a  pale  perfection 

Thai  is  paramount  over  thought. 

80  at  music  entranced  we  wonder. 

If  its  charm  tlie  spirit  seeks. 
When  with  melhjw  vi)lumiiious  thun- 
der 

A  sovereign  maestro  sp.;aks. 
Till  it  seems  that  by  ghostly  aiilauce 

Upraised  alx)ve  lesser  throngs. 
He  lias  caught  from  ibe  stars  their 
cadence 

And  woven  the  wind  into  songs. 

More  tlian  all,  if  the  statidy  brilliance 

Of  a  poit's  rapture  ri>e. 
Like  a  fountain  wbo-e  full  resilience 

Is  lovely  agH'Ust  fair  skies. 
\re   we   thrilled    \\U\\   a   dream    un- 
'lounded 

Of  deeps  by  no  vision  scanned, 
I  bat  <oiijeciure  has  never  soiiuiled 

And  conception  has  neverspanned. 

hn  the  liarvest  that  knowletlge  misses, 

Intuition  seeins  to  rea|); 
One  pausi's  before  tbe  abysses 

Tbat  one  will  delight  to  leap. 
'  Mie  balks  the  ruminani  sjines. 

And  one  ImiIh  ilie  world  aspire, 
Wbile  Ibe  slow  proecvsloiial  ag08 

Irreversibly  retire. 


It'OUXDS. 

'L'HK  night-wind  sweeps  its  viewle^j 
lyre. 

And  o'er  dim  lands,  at  pastoral  rest, 
.\  single  star's  white  heart  of  tire 

Is  throbbing  in  the  amber  west. 

(  track  a  rivulet,  while  1  roam, 
iJy  banks  that  copious  leafage  cools 

.\nd  watch  it  rougbening  into  fo.c- 
Or  deepening  into  glassy  pools. 

And  where  the  shy  stream  gains  a 
glade 

That  willowy  thickets  overwhelm. 
I  find  a  cottage  in  the  shade 

of  one  high  patriarchal  elm. 

I'nseen.  I  mark,  well  bowered  from 
reach, 

.\  L^roup  I  lie  sloping  lawn  displays, 
.\u.l  mere  by  gestures  than  by  speech 

I  learn  ilieir  converse  while  I  gaze. 

In   cmioiis   band,  youth,  maid,  am' 
dame, 
AI)OUl    bis    cliair   f!;ey    throng    to 
greet 
A  gjiiint  old  man  of  ciip])leil  frame, 
\Vliose  erutcli  lean.-  idle  at  his  feel. 

fJirt   Willi    meek   iwilight's  peaceful 

breath,  |fray, 

'I'hey   hear  of    loud.    teini»esluous 

Of  troops  mown  down  like  wheat  I'V 

dcalb. 

Of  red  Aniietam's  Rhjistly  day. 

Fie  fells  of  liui1,s  that  will  not  heal; 

<  >f  acbes  ilial  nerve  and  sinew  fret. 
Where  sling  of  sli.,i  aiul  bile  of  s|,.el 

Have  left  iheir  dull  metnenlos  yel  ; 

.\tid  touched  by  pal  bos.  filled  with 
praise. 

Ills  uMtliered  lie.irers  closer  ])re.ss, 
To  |iay  alike  in  glance  or  plira.se, 

Hespon.se  of  pitying  teiiderne.H.s. 

But  I.  who  note  their  kindly  will. 

Look  onward,   jiasl    the  liox-edi^ed 

walk.  Istill, 

Where   .stands  a  woman,  t^rave   and 

Oblivious  of  ilia-ir  fleeliiig  talk. 


FAWCETT. 


221 


Her  listless  arms  droop  either  side ; 

In  pensive  grace  her  brow  is  bent; 
Her  slender  form  leaves  half-deseried 

A  sweet  fatigued  abandonment. 

And  while  she  Im-es  my  musing  eye, 
The  mournful  reverie  of  her  air 

Speaks  to  my  thought,  I  know  not 
why, 
In  the  ste"u  dialect  of  despair. 

Lone  wistful  moods  it  seems  to  show 
Of  anguish  borne  through  laggard 
years, 

With  outward  calm,  with  secret  flow 
Of  unalleviating  tears. 

It  breathes  of  duty's  daily  strife, 
When  jaded  effort  loathes  to  strive; 

Of  patience  lingering  firm,  when  life 
Is  tired  of  being  yet  alive. 

Enthralled  by  this  fair,  piteous  face. 
While  heaven  is  puri)ling  overhead, 

So  more  I  heed  the  old  solilicr  trace 
How  sword  has  cut,  or  bullet  sped. 

I  dream  of  sorrow's  noiseless  fight, 
AVhere  no  blades  ring,  no  cannon 
roll. 
And  where  the  shadowy  blows  that 
smite 
Give   bloodless  wounds  thai   soar 
the  soul ; 

Of  fate  unmoved  by  desperate  prayers 
From  those  its   plunderous  wrath 
lays  low ; 
Of  bivouacs  whore  the  spirit  stares 
At    smouldering    passion's    faded 
ji^'ow ; 

And  last,  of  that  sad  armistice  made 
On  till'   ia.k  field  whence  hope  has 
»i-d, 


Ere  yet,  like  some  poor  ghost  unlaid, 
Pale  Memory  glides  to  count  hei 
dead. 


TlfE  WOOD-TURTLE. 

Girt  with  the  grove's  aerial  sigh, 
In  clumsy  stupor,  deaf  as  fate, 

Near  this  coiled,  naked  root  you  lie, 
Imperviously  inanimate. 

Between  these  woodlands  where  we 
met. 
And   your  grim   languor,   void   of 
grace, 
My  glance,  dumb  sylvan  anchoret. 
Mysterious  kinsmanship  can  trace. 

For  in  your  checkered  shape  are  shown 
The  mii-y  black  of  swamp  and  l)og. 

The  tawny  brown  of  lichened  stone, 
The  inertness  of  the  tumbled  log. 

But  when  you  break  this  lifeless  pause. 
And  from  your  parted   shell  out- 
spread 

A  rude  array  of  lumbering  claws, 
A  length  of  lean,  dark  snaky  head, 

I  watch  from  sluggish  torjior  start 
These    vital    signs,    uncouth    and 
strange. 
And  mutely  murmur  to  my  heart: 
'"Ah   me!   how   lovelier   were  the 
change, 

"  If  yonder  tough  oak,  seamed  with 

scars. 
Could   give  some   white,   wild   fonu 

release. 
With  eyes  amid  whose  wistfid  stars 
Burned     memories     of     immorta' 

Greece!" 


009 


FA  Y  -  FEXXKR. 


Anna   Maria   Fay. 


tLERP  ANT)  DEATH. 

Oft  see  we  in  the  garisli  rouiul  of 

day 
A  (lanypr-haunled  world   for  our 

sad  feet, 
Or  fear  we  tread  along  the  peopled 

street 

A   lioiueless   path,  an   unfoinpan- 
ioned  way. 
So  too  the  night  doth  bring  its  own 
array 

Of  ilarkling  terrors  we  must  singly 
meet, 

Eaeli  soul  apart  in  its  unknown  re- 
treat. 

With    life    a    purposeless,  uncon- 
scious play. 
But   thoii;;h    tlie   day  discovers   us 
afraid, 

I'uhure  of  some  safe  hand  to  he 
our  guide. 

Rest  we  at   night,  as  if   for  each 
were  said, 


He  giveth  unto  His  beloved  sleep." 
Nought  less  tlian  all  do  we  in  sleep 

confide. 
And  death  l)Ut  needs  of  us  a  trust 

as  tleep. 


no  S  DEL. 

WilKN  love  is  in  her  eyes, 

Wlial  need  of  .Spring  for  me? 
A  brigliter  emerald  lies 

On  hill  and  vale  and  lea. 
The  azure  of  the  skies 

Holds  nought  so  sweet  to  see, 
When  love  i-^  in  her  eye<. 

What  nei'd  of  Spring  for  me? 

Her  bloom  the  rose  outvies. 
The  lily  dares  no  plea, 

The  violet's  glon'  dies. 

No  Mower  so  sweet  can  be; 

When  love  is  in  iier  eyes. 

What  need  of  Spring  for  me  ? 


Cornelius  George  Fenner. 


ini.F-wEKn. 

A  WKAKV  weed,  tosseil  to  and  fro, 
Drearily   drenched    in    the    ocean 
brine. 
Soaring  high  and  sinking  low. 

Lashed  along  witlioiii  will  of  nunc; 

,  ort  of  thcHpunieof  I  be  surging  sea; 

Khnig  on  the  foam,  afar  and  anear, 

;  >rk  my  manifold  mysii-r)-, — 

<;rowili   ami    grace  in  their  place 

appear. 

1  bear  toimd  I)err!es,  gray  jiiuI  re«|, 
Km.,  1     -  :,iid  rover  thouuh  I  be; 
M>      ;  i;i„l.d    leaves,    wlnn     nicely 

Npreild, 


Arboresce  as  a  tnmkless  tree; 
Corals  riirioiis  coat  me  o'er. 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array; 
'Mid  the  will!  waves"  nnie  uproar, 

(iracefully  grow  I,  ni'.;lit  an<l  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on   the    sounding 
.slmre, 

Someiliing  whispers  «oft  to  me, 
ilestless  anti  roaming  for  e\ermore. 

Like  this  weary  we.d  of  (he  sea: 
ISear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 

The  eternal  type  of  the  wondroUN 
wboli-: 
(irowth  imfolding  anddst  inirc^t, 

(iraee  informing.;  with  silent  soul. 


FIELDS. 


22S 


Annie   Fields. 


TO  SAPPHO. 

Daughter  of  Love !  Out  of  the  flow- 
ing river, 

Bearing  the  tiiie  of  life  upon  its  bil- 
low, 

Down  to  that  gulf  where  love  and 
song  together 

Sink  and  must  perish : 

Out  of  that  fatal  and  resistless  cur- 
rent, 

One  little  song  of  thine  to  thy  great 
mother, 

Treasured  upon  the  heart  of  earth 
forever, 

Alone  is  rescued. 

Yet  when  spring  comes,  and  weary  is 
the  spirit, 

^Vhen  love  is  here,  but  absent  is  the 
lover, 

And  life  is  here,  and  only  love  is  dy- 
ing, 

Then  tm-n  we,  longing, 

Singer,  to  thee!  Through  ages  unfor- 
gotten ; 

Wliere  beats  the  heart  of  one  who  in 
her  loving 

Sang,  all  for  love,  and  gave  herself 
in  singing 

To  the  sea's  bosom. 


{From  The  Last  Content  of  JEschyl us.] 

YOUXa   SOPHOCLES    TAKING    THE 
PRIZE  FROM  AGED  JSSCHYLUS. 

IJuT  now  the  games  succeeded,  then 
a  pause. 

And  after  came  the  judges  with  the 
scrolls; 

Two  scrolls,  not  one,  as  in  departed 
years. 

And  this  saw  none  but  the  youth, 
Sophocles, 

Who  stool  with  head  erect  and  shin- 
ing eyes. 

As  if  the  beacon  of  some  promised 
land 

Caught  his  strong  vision  and  en- 
tranced it  thcrt'. 


Then  while  the  earth  made  mimicry 

of  heaven 
With    stillness,    calmly    spake    the 

mightiest  judge : 
"O   yEschylus!    The  father  of  om- 

song! 
Athenian  master  of  the  tragic  lyre 
Thou  the  incomparable !    Swayer  of 

strong  hearts! 
Immortal  minstrel  of  immortal  deeds ! 
The  autumn  grows  apace,   and   ail 

must  die; 
Soon    winter    comes,    and     silence. 

^schylus! 
After  that  silence  laughs  the  tuneful 

spring! 
Read'st  thou  our  meaning  through 

this  slender  veil 
Of    nature's    weaving  ?     Sophocles, 

stand  forth! 
Behold  Fame  calls  thee  to  her  loftiest 

seat, 
And  bids  thee  wear  her  crown.  Stand 

forth,  I  say!" 
Then,  like  a  fawn,  the  youthful  poet 

sprang 
From  the  dark  thicket  of  new  crowd- 
ing friends. 
And  stood,  a  straight,  lithe  form  with 

gentle  mien. 
Crowned  first  with  light  of  happiness 

and  youth. 

But  ^schylus,  the  old  man,  bending 

lower 
Under  this  new  cliief  weight  of  all 

the  years, 
Turned  from  that  scene,  tiu-ned  from 

the  shouting  crowd. 
Whose  every  voice  wounded  his  dying 

soul 
With     arrows     jioison-dipped,     and 

walked  alone. 
Forgotten,  under  plane-trees,  by  the 

stream. 
"The  last!  The  last!  Have  I  no  more 

to  do 
With  tjhis  sweet  world !    Is  the  bright 

morning  now 
No  longer  fraught  for  me  with  crowd 

ing  song  ? 


224 


FIELDS. 


Will  I'vening  briui;  no  unsought  fniit- 

,       A-^*'  lioiiic  ? 
Must   tin-  tUys  pass  and  these  poor 

lips  Itr  (luinl). 
While   stirwinu   leaves    sing  fulling 

through  the  air. 
Ami   autumn  gathers  in  her  riehesi 

truil  ? 
When-  is  uiv  spring  departed?  Where, 

(>  goils! 
W  ithin    iuy  spirit  still  the  i)uilding 

birds 
1  iiear.  with  voice  more  tender  than 

when  leaves 
Are  budding  and  the  happy  earth  is 

gay. 
Am  I,  indi'fd.  grown  dund>  for  ever- 
more! 
Take   m.'.    <)   bark!   Take   m.'.  thou 

(lowing  stream! 
Who  kuowi'sl  ntiught  of  death  save 

when  thy  waves 
Kush  to  new  life  upon   the  ocean's 

breast. 
I'.-ar  thou  uje  singing  to  the  uud.r 

world ! 


[  Frnm  Sophocteii.] 

AdElf    Siil'lloCLES   M>l>KESSI.\U   THE 

ATIIESI.WS  liEEnliE  HE  MUSH  HIS 

IE  01 1' US  CO  I.  ".v/;  fS. 

III. wi;i>  half  with  age  ami  half  with 

nverence,  thus. 
I     Sopboilcs,    now   answ.T   to    your 

call; 
(Questioned  have  I  the  cau-.e  and  the 

;  Msoii   learned. 
l,o,  I  am  lure  thai  all  tiie  world  may 

see 
Ihese  feelde  limbs  that  signal  of  de- 
cay! 
Hut.  know  ye,  ere  the  aged  oak  nuisl 

dii-. 
!,oiig   after  the   strong    years    have 

bi-nl  his  form, 
lb.-  -.I'ling  still  gently  wj'aves  a  leafy 

finun, 
I'nsh   as  ot    vorr  to  dck  his  wintry 

li.ad 


Ye  shall  be  judges  if  the  spring  hav« 

l)rought 
Late  unto  me.  the  aged  oak.  a  crown. 
Hear  ye  once  jnore,  ere  yet  the  river 

of  sleep 
r>ear  me  away  far  on  its  darkening 

li(h'. 
The  niuxic  brcatheil  upon  me  from 

these  liclds. 
If  to  your  ears,  alas!  the  shattercil 

strings 
Xo  longer  sing,  but  breathe  a  iliscoid 

harsh, 
1   will  return  and  tlraw  this  m.intle 

close 
About  my  head  and  lav  me  down  t» 

di.'. 
lUil  if  ye  hear  the  \yonlcd  spirit  call, 
lYaming  the  natural  song  that  tills 

tills  world 
To  a  diviner  form,  then  shall  ye  all 

believe 
The  love  1  bear  to  those  most  in'ar  to 

me 
Is    living    still,   and    living    cannot 

wrong; 
i'o  me,  it  seems,  the  love   1    bear  to 

thee, 
.U  liens,  blooms  fresh  as  violets  in  yon 

wood, 
.Makiiu:  new  spring  within  this  aged 

breast. 


AT   Tin:    I'lnCF. 


I  .\M  Ilcphaisios,  and  forever  here 
.stand  at  the  forge  aiul  labor,  while  I 

dream 
Of  thoM' who  labor  not    and  are  not 

lame. 
I   hear  the  early  and   tin-  late  birds 

call. 
Hear  winter  whisper  to  the  <oniiiig 

sKriiig, 
.Vnd  waieh  the  feet  of  Miiimier  dani'- 

ing  light 
l''or  joy  across  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Labor  endures,  but  all  of  these  must 


ii.a...  I  I'ii'^'*' 

\iid  now.  <>   p.npl.-  miiK-.  who  huve    .\nd  ye  who  I. .v.-  them  Ik-sI,  nor  are 
loved  my  sun/;,  '  coudeuuieii 


FIELDS. 


22a 


To  beat  the  anvil  through  the  sum- 
mer (lay, 
May  learn  the  secret  of  their  sudden 

flight; 
No  mortal  tongue  may  whisper  where 

they  hide, 
But  to  her  love,  half  nestled  m  the 

grass. 
Earth  has  been  known  to  whisper  I'^w 

yet  clear 
Strange  consolation   for  the   wintry 

days. 
Oh,  listen  then,  ye  singers!  learn  anc' 

tell 
Those  who  must  labor  by  the  dusty 

way! 


PASSAGE  FROM  THE  PRELUDE. 


O  YOUTH  of  the  world, 

Thou  wert  sweet ! 

In  thy  bud 

Slept  nor  canker  nor  pain; 

In  the  blood 

Of  thy  grape  was  no  frost  and   no  j  Who  knows  both  our  death  and  oui 

rain-  i  birth. 

Hove  thee  1    I  follow  thy  feet !  | 


The  youth  of  my  heart, 

And  the  deathless  fire 

Leap  to  embrace  thee: 

And  nlgher,  and  nigher, 

Through  the  darkness  of  grief  and 

the  smart. 
Thy  form  do  1  see. 

But  the  tremulous  hand  of  the  years 
Has  brought  me  a  friend. 
Beautiful  gift  beyond  price! 
Beyond  loss,  beyond  tears! 
Hither  she  stands,  clad  in  a  veil. 
O  thou  youth  of  the  world! 
She  was  a  stranger  to  thee. 
Thou  didst  fear  her  and  flee. 

Sorrow  is  her  name; 
And  the  face  of  Sorrow  is  pale; 
But  her  heart  is  aflame 
With  a  fire  no  winter  can  tame. 
Her  love  will  not  bend 
To  the  storm. 
To  the  voices  of  pleasure, 
Nor  faint  in  the  arms  of  the  earth; 
But  she  folUnveth  ever  the  form 
j  Of  the  ^histcr  whose  promise  is  sure, 


James  Thomas   Fields. 


MORNING  AND  E  VENINO  li  V   THE 
SEA. 

At  dawn   the   fleet  stretched   miles 
away 

On  ocean-plains  asleep, — 
Trim  vessels  waiting  for  the  day 

To  move  across  th(!  deep. 
So  still  the  sails  they  s(H'nied  to  be 
White  lilies  growing  in  the  sea. 

When  evening   touched    the  cape's 
low  rim, 
And  dark  fell  on  the  waves. 
We  only  saw  processions  dim 

Of  clouds,  from  shadowy  caves; 
These  were  the  ghosts  of  buried  sbijis 
Groue    down     in    one    brief     hours 
eclipse! 


THE  fEIU'ETVITY  OF  SONG. 

It  was  ;i  blitliesome  young  jongleur 

Wlio  si;trted  out  to  sing, 
iMgbl  hundred  years  ago.  or  more. 

On  a  leafy  morn  in  spring; 
And  he  carolled  sweet  as  any  bird 

That  ever  trieil  lis  wing. 

<  )f  love  his  little  heart  was  full,— 

Madonna!  liow  be  sang! 
Tlie  blossoms  (nniiiled  with  delight 

And  nuiiid  about  liini  sprang, 
As  lorlb  among  the  l)anks  of  Loire 

Tlie  minstrel's  nnisir  rang. 

Ihe  boy  had  left  a  home  of  want 
To  waniler  up  antl  down, 


226 


FIELDS. 


Ami  sins  for  broad  aii«l  nightly  rest 

In  ni;iny  an  alii-n  town. 
And  i)('ar  wh.'lcvi'r  lot  bct't'll, — 

Tlie  alleruate  smile  and  frown. 

The  singer' .s  carolling  lips  are  dust, 

And  ages  long  since  then 
Dead   kings   have   lain   beside   their 
thrones, 

Voiceless  as  conunon  men, — 
But  (Jeraid's  songs  are  echoing  still 

Through  every  mountain  glen! 


IS  ICXVUEMIS. 

Oil,  the  soul-haunliiig  shadows  when 

low  he'll  lie  dying. 
And  the  dread  angel's  voice  for  his 

spirit  is  citing! 
Where  will  his  thoughts  wander,  just 

before  sleeping. 
When  a  chill  from  the  dark  o'er  his 

forehead  is  creeping? 
Will  he  go  on  beguiling. 
And  wantonly  sndling? 

'Tis  June  with  him   now,  but  <|uiri; 

Cometh  l)iTcinl)cr; 
There's  a   brokm    licart  somewlicrc 

for  him  to  rrmcmber. 
And   sure  as  (iod  liveth,  for  all  hi-> 

gay  trolling. 
The  bell  for  his  passing  one  day  will 

be  lolling! 
Then  no  more  hegnilin',', 
Fal-c  vou  III"  •III. I  siiilliu  • ' 


A  r nor/: ST. 

Go,  sojihist!  dare  not  to  despoil 
My  life  of  what  it  sorely  n<'«ds 

In  days  of  pain,  in  hours  of  toil. — 
The    i)read    on    wliich    my   spirit 
feeds. 

You  W4-  jio  liulil  beyond  the  .stars. 
No  hope  of  lasting  joys  to  couie  V 

I  feel,  thank  (hmI.  nn  narrow  bars 
Belwecu  nil-  and  my  linal  home! 


Hence    with    your    cold    sepulchra; 
bans. — 
The    vassal    doubts    Unfaith    has 
given! 
My    childhood's    heart    within     the 
man's 
Still   whispers   to   me,    "Trust   in 
Heaven!" 


COiTRTESr. 

How   sweet  and   gr.ieious,   even    in 

common  speech. 
Is  that   fine  sense  which    men   call 

Courtesy ! 
Wholesome  as  air  and  genial  as  the 

light. 
Welcome  in  every  clime  as  breath  of 

flowers, — 
It   transmutes    aliens    into    trusting 

friends. 
And  gives  its  owner  passport  roimd 

the  globe. 


A    CllAnACrF.I!. 

<)  ii.\l'l'IKST  he,  whose    riper   years 

retain 
The  hopes  of  youth,  unsullied  by  a 

stain! 
Mis  eve  of  life  in  calm  content  shall 

glide. 
Like  the  still  streandet  to  the  ocean 

tide: 
N'o  gloomy  cl<iud  hangs  o'er  his  tran- 

ipiij  day; 
N'o  meteor  lines  him  from   his  home 

astray : 
l-"or  him  tlii-re  glows  with  glittering 

bi*am  on  Idgb 
Love's  changeless  star  lh.it  leads  him 

to  the  sky; 
still  to  the  pa-<t  he  sometimes   turns 

li>  trace 
Tlie  mild  expression  of  a  mother's 

face, 
\nd   ilreams.    )icrchancc,   as  oft    in 

earlier  vears. 
The.  low,  sweet  music  of  her  voice  \\» 

hears. 


FINCH. 


22: 


FIRST  APPEARANCE  AT   THE  ODioN. 

"I  AM  Nicholas  Tarchinardi, —  liiinchbacked,  look  you,  and  a  fright; 

Caliban  himself  might  never  interjiose  so  foul  a  sight. 

(Jianted;  but  I  come  not,  masters,  to  exhibit  form  or  size. 

(Jaze  not  on  my  limbs,  good  people;  lend  your  e^/j'.s,  and  not  your  eyes. 

I'm  a  singer,  not  a  dancer, —  spare  me  for  a  while  your  din; 

Let  me  try  my  voice  to-night  here, —  keep  your  jests  till  I  begin. 

Have  the  kindness  but  to  listen, —  this  is  all  I  dare  to  ask. 

See,  I  stand  beside  the  footlights,  waiting  to  begin  my  task. 

If  I  fail  to  please  you,  curse  me, —  not  before  my  voice  you  hear, 

Thrust  me  not  from  the  Odeon.     Hearken,  and  I've  naught  to  fear." 

Then  the  crowd  in  pit  and  boxes  jeered  the  dwarf,  and  mocked  his  shape ; 
Called- him  "monster,"  "thing  abhorrent,"  crying,  "Off,  presumptuous  ape 
Off,  unsightly,  baleful  creature!  off,  and  quit  the  insulted  stage! 
Move  aside,  repulsive  figure,  or  deplore  our  gathering  rage." 

Bowing  low,  pale  Tacchinardi,  long  accustomed  to  such  threats, 
Burst  into  a  grand  bravura,  showering  notes  like  diamond  jets, — 
Sang  vmtil  the  ringing  plaudits  through  the  wide  Ode'on  rang, — 
Sang  as  never  soaring  tenor  ere  behind  those  footlights  sang; 
And  the  himchback,  ever  after,  like  a  god  was  hailed  with  cries, — 
'''King  of  minstrels,  live  forever!    Shame  on  fools  loho  have  but  eyes!" 


Francis  Miles  Finch. 


TffE  BLUE  AND  THE   GRAY. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river; 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  liad  fled. 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass 
quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew; 

Waiting  the  Judgment-Day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  gloiy. 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat; 
All  with  tlie  batt](>-l)lood  goiy. 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  <lew; 

Waiting  the  .liidgnicnl-I)ay; 
Under  the  lauicl.  the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow,  the  (Jray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
The  desolate  mourners  go, 


Lovingly  laden  with  flowers. 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew; 

Waiting  the  -ludgnient-Day; 
Under  the  laurel,  llie  IJliie; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splenilor. 

Tlif  morning  siui-rays  fall. 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender. 
On  the  l)lossoins  blooming  for  all; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  ({ow: 

Waiting  the  Judgment-nay: 
Broidered  with  gold.  I  lie  Blue; 
Mellowed  witli  gold,  the  C»ray 

So.  when  the  summer  calleth 
On  forest  and  Held  of  grain. 
With  an  c<nial  mnriniir  falleth 
The  cooling  dri])  of  the  rain; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew; 

Waiting  the  Jiidumcnt-Day; 
Wet  witli  the  rain,  the  Blue: 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray 


228 


FRENEAU—  GANNETT. 


Sadly,  but  not  with  uplu-aidiu!!. 
The  gi'in'rous  (K-t'd  was  doiu-; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years,  now  fad- 
Ini;. 
No  l)raver  battle  was  won; 
I'ndtT  tlu'  sod  and  I  lie  dew: 

Waiting'  ilie  .Ind;,'inent-I)ay; 
UndtT  tlie  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  yarhmds,  the  tJray. 


No  more  shall  I  lie  war-cry  sever, 

Or  the  winiliiiL:  rivers  be  red; 
They  banisli  our  anger  forever 
When  they  iainfl  the  graves  of  oui 
dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  ilew: 

AVaiting  the  .ludginent-Day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  l>lue; 
Teiii-s  and  love  for  the  CJray. 


Philip  Freneau. 


At  AY  TO   An  III  I.. 

WiTiioiT  your  showers 

1  breed  no  flowers: 
Eaeh  fii'ld  a  barren  waste  appeai-s; 

If  you  ilon't  weep. 

My  blossoms  sleep, 
They  take  such  pleasure  in  your  tears. 

As  your  deeay 

Made  room  for  May, 
So  1  nnist  part  with  all  that's  mine; 

My  balmy  breeze. 

My  blooming  trees, 
To  torrid  zones  their  sweets  resign. 


For  .\pril  dead 

.My  shades  I  spread, 
To  her  i  owe  my  dress  so  gay; 

Of  daiiuliiers  tliree 

It  falls  on  me 
To  elose  our  triumphs  in  one  day. 

Thus  to  rejmse 

All  nature  goes; 
Month    after    month    nuist    find    it^ 
doom ; 

Time  on  the  wing. 

May  ends  the  spring. 
And  .sununer  frolies  o'er  her  tomb. 


William    Cmanning   Gannett. 


I  HKAK  it«iften  in  the  dark, 

I  liear  it  in  lie-  ligiit.— 
Where  is  the  vojee  Ilia!  calls  to  me 

Willi  sneh  a  'iiiiei  nduhl  '.' 
It  seems  ImiI  eelii)  to  my  tlioMglll, 

And  yel  bey«»iid  tin-  stars; 
It  Hci'Mis  a  lieart-be.ii  ill  a  hush. 

And  y<!t  the  planet  jars. 

Oh.  may  it  be  that  far  within 

Mv  iiinuist  soul  there  lie« 
A  spirii-->ky.  thai  opeii'^  with 

Tluwe  voices  of  siiiiirisc  ? 
And  can  it  be.  by  niglil  and  day, 

'I'liat  firm.imciit  serene 
Is  just  the  lH-a\e||  «  here  (tod  hlm'«elf, 

The  Father,  dwells  luisecn  ? 


Ob.  (Jod  within,  so  close  to  me 

That  every  tlioiight  is  jtlain. 
lie  jtldve.  l>e  frieliil.  be  F.il  lier  sl  ill. 

And  ill  I  by  heaven  reign ! 
'thy     heaven    is     mine, —  my    ver> 
soul ! 

Tliy  words  arc  sweet  and  strong; 
Tliev  till  my  inward  silences 

Willi  music  a:id  with  .son|.. 

Tliev  send  me  ehallcrcjes  to  right. 

.\iid  loud  lebidce  my  ill: 
They  till'.;  mv  ImIN  of  vieiorv. 

They  breathe  my  "I'cacc.  i>e  still  I*" 
They  c\er  seem  to  say.  "  M\  child; 

Wbv  s><!<  me  -io  .ill  day  ? 
Now  jomtiey  inward  In  thyself. 

.\nd  listen  by  the  way." 


(jfABRISON  —  OA  SSA  WA  Y. 


229 


William   Lloyd  Harrison. 


THE  FREE  MIND. 

IIlGH  walls  and  hu^e  the  body  may 
confine, 

And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  prisoner's 
gaze, 

And  massive  bolts  may  balfle  his  de- 
sign, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  de- 
vious ways; 

But  scorns  the  immortal  mind  such 
base  control; 

No  chains  can  bind  it  and  no  cell  en- 
close. 


Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  pol« 
to  jiole, 

And  in  a  llasli  from  earth  to  heavon 
it  goes. 

It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount,  from 
vale  to  vale 

It  wanders  plucking  honeyed  fruits 
and  flowers; 

It  visits  home  to  hear  the  fireside  tab 

And  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joy- 
ous Iiours; 

'Tis  up  before  the  sun.  roaming  afar, 

And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 


.  Frank  H.  Gassaway. 


BA  Y  BILL  Y. 

TwAS  the  last  fight  at  Fredericks- 
burg,— 
Perhaps  the  day  you  reek. 
Our  boys,  the  Twenty-iSccond  Maine, 

Kept  Early's  men  in  clieck. 
Just  where  Wade  Hampton  boomed 
away 
The  fight  went  neck  and  neck. 

All  day  the  weaker  wirg  we  held, 

And  held  it  with  a  will. 
Five    several     stubborn     times     we 
charged 

The  battery  on  the  hill. 
And  five  times  beaten  back,  re-formed. 

And  kept  our  column  still. 

At  last  from  out  the  centre  fight. 

Spurred  up  a  general's  aid. 
"  That  battery  must  silenced  be!" 

He  cried,  as  past  he  sped. 
Our  colonel  simply  toucljed  liis  cap. 

And  then,  with  measured  tread, 

To  lead  the  crouching  line  once  more 
The  grand  old  fellow  eaiiie. 

No  wounded  man  but  raised  liishead 
And  strove  to  gasp  his  name, 


And  those  who  could  not  speak  nor 
stir, 
"  God  blessed  him"  just  the  same. 

For  he  was  all  the  world  to  us, 

That  hero  gray  ami  grim. 
Right  well  we  kntnv  that  fearful  slope 

We'd  climb  witli  none  but  liim, 
Though  while  hi;-  white  head  led  tlie 
way 

We'd  charge  hell's  portals  in. 

This  time  we  were  not  half-way  up, 
Wiiei),  midst  the  stonn  of  shell, 

Our  leader,  with  his  sword  upraised, 
Uem-atli  our  bayonets  fell. 

An^,  as  we  bore  him  back,  the  foe 
Set  up  ;i  joyous  yell. 

Our   hearts  went   with    iiim.     Back 
we  swept. 
And  when  the  l>ugl<'  said 
"Up,  charge,  again!"  no  man  was 
there 
But  Inuig  bis  dogired  head. 
"We've  no  one  left  to  lead  us  now," 
The  sullen  soldiers  said. 

.lust  then  lufore  the  lagganl  line 
Tlie  ctilDuers  horse  we  spied, 


230 


O  AS  SAW  A  7, 


Bay  Billy  with  liis  tnipiiings  on. 
His  nostrils  swilling  wiilc,* 

As  though  still  on  his  i^allant  back 
The  master  sat  aslriile. 

Ui^'ht  royally  he  took  the  place 
I'hat  w:is  of  oM  his  wont. 

\n<l  with  a  m-igh  that  Sfenuul  to  say, 
Above  the  battle's  brunt, 

'  How  can  the  Twenty-.Second  charge 
If  I  aui  not  in  front?" 

r.ike  statues  rooted  there  we  stood. 

And  gazed  a  litlli!  space, 
Above  that  lloating  nuine  we  missed 

The  dear  familiar  face. 
But  we  saw  Bay  Billy's  eye  of  fire, 

And  it  gave  us  lieart  of  grace. 

No  bugle-call  could  rouse  us  all 
As  thai  brave  sight  had  done, 

Down  all  the  l)attered  line  we  felt 
A  lightning  impulse  run. 

Up!  up  the  iiill  we  followed  Bill, 
And  we  captured  every  giml 

An<l  wlien  upon  thoronq tiered  lieighl 
Died  out  the  l>atlle's  hum. 

Vainly  mid  living  and  the  dead 
We  sought  our  Iea«ler  dumb. 

It  seemed  jus  if  a  spectre  steed 
T(j  win  that  day  had  come. 

And  then  the  dusk  and  dew  of  night 

Kill  softly  o'er  the  plain. 
As  I  bough  o'er  man's  dread  work  of 
death 
The  angfls  wept  again, 
Aii'l    ili-ew    night's    curtain     gently 
roimd 
A  thoasand  beds  of  pain. 

All  night  the  stirgeons'  torches  went, 
Till-  ghastly  rows  between, — 

All  uighl  uilh  soliinn  sti-p  I  |)ai'ed 
rill-  lorn  and  bloinly  green. 

But  who  that  fought  in  the  big  war 
Such  dread  Bights  liave  not  seen  ? 

Ai  last  the  morning  brftkr.    'ihe  lark 
bang  in  ihu  lucrry  skies, 


As  if  to  e'en  the  sleepers  there 

It  bade  awake,  and  rise! 
Though  nauglit  but  that  last  trump 
of  all 

Could  ope  their  licavy  eyes. 

And   then  once  more  with  banners 
gay. 
Stretched  out  the  long  brigade. 
Trimly  upon  the  furrowed  field 
The  troops  stood  on  parade. 
Ami    bravely   mid    the   ranks   were 
closed 
The  gaps  the  fight  had  made. 

Not  half  the  Twenty-Second's  men 
Wen-  in  their  i)lace  that  morn; 

.\nd  ('ori)ora!  Dirk,  who  yester-noon 
Stood  six  brave  fellows  on. 

Now  toin'hed  my  elbow  in  the  ranks, 
For  all  between  were  gone. 

Ah!  who  forgets  that  dreary  hour 
When,  as  with  misty  eves. 

To  call  the  old  familiar  ri.ll 
The  soli^mn  seru'eant  tries. — 

One  feels  that  thumping  of  thr  heart 
As  no  promi)t  voice  replies. 

.\nd  as  in  faltering  tone  and  Mow 
The  lasl  few  names  were  said. 

Across  the  (ii-ld  some  ml^i-^ing  horse 
Toiled  up  Ihe  wtary  tre.ad. 

It  caught    the   sergeant's   eye,    and 
(|uii-k 
Bay  liilly's  name  he  read. 

Yes!  there  the  old  bay  hero  sUmkI, 
.Ml  safe  from  battl.-'s  barms. 

.\nd  enaii  onli-r  <(iuld  be  beartl. 
Or  tin-  bugle's  (pii«-k  alarms, 

Down  all  the  front,  from  end  to  end. 
The  trooi)9  pre.sente<l  ann^I 

Not  all  the  shoirfder-straps  on  ■•artli 
Could  si  ill  oiii   mlixlity  elieer; 

.\nil  evir  from  I  bat  famous  ilay, 
When  rang  the  roll  eall  clear. 

Bay    Billy's    name    was    n>ad,    and 
llu-'n 
The  whole  line  answered,  "  Here  I "' 


GILDER. 


231 


Richard  Watson   Gilder. 


THERE  rs  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER 

THE  SUN. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun ; 

There  is  no  new  hope  or  despair; 
The  agony  just  begun 

Is  as  old  as  the  earth  and  the  air. 
My  secret  soul  of  bliss 

Is  one  with  tlie  singing  star's. 
And  the  ancient  naouutains  miss 

No  hurt  that  my  being  mars. 

I  know  as  I  know  my  life, 

I  know  as  I  know  my  pain. 
That  there  is  no  lonely  strife. 

That  he  is  mad  who  would  gain 
A  separate  balm  for  his  woe, 

A  single  pity  and  cover: 
The  one  great  God  I  know 

Hears  the  same  prayer  over  and 
over. 

I  know  it  because  at  the  portal 

Of  heaven  I  bowed  and  cried, 
And  I  said,  "  Was  ever  a  mortal 

Thus  crowned  and  crucified! 
My  praise  tliou  liast  made  my  blame; 

My  best  tliou  hast  made  m\  worst; 
My  good  thou  hast  turned  to  shame ; 

My  drink  is  a  llaming  thirst." 

But  scarce  my  prayer  was  said 

Ere  from  that  place  I  turned ; 
1  trembled,  I  hung  my  head. 

My  clieek,  shame-smitten,  burned ; 
For  there  wliere  I  bowed  down 

In  my  boastful  agony, 
I  thought  of  thy  cross  and  crown, — 

O  Chiistl  1  remembered  thee. 


By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare: 
He  shook  the  seed  that  he  carried 
O'er  that  brown  and  Ijladeless  place. 
He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 
Over  a  doomed  land, 
When  lightnings  interlace 
The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  his  wand 
Of  love  is  a  thunder  flail. 

Thus  did  that  sower  sow; 
His  seed  was  human  blood, 
And  tears  of  women  and  men. 
And  I,  who  near  him  stood, 
Said :  When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
Flame  and  ashes  and  woe. 

It  was  an  autunni  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see? 

What  was  it  that  1  heard  ? 

The  song  of  a  sweet-voiced  bird  ? 

Nav —  but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled   tln-ough    with    praise    and 

prayer. 
Of  all  those  voices  not  any 
Were  sad  of  memory : 
And  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed, 
Ancl  a  golden  harvest  glowed! 
On  my  face  1  fell  down  there; 
And  1  said:  Thou  only  art  wise — 
(Jod  of  tlie  earth  and  skies! 
And  I  thank  tliee,  again  and  again, 
For  the  sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


THE  SOWER. 

A  sowEU  went  forth  to  sow, 
His  eyes  were  dark  with  woe; 
He  crushed  tlie  flowers  beneath  liis 
feet,  |sweei. 

Nor  smelt   the   perfume   warm   and 
That  prayed  for  pity  everywliere. 
He  came  to  a  held  that  was  harried 


WEAL  AND    WOE. 

O  iiicniEST,  strongest,  sweetest  wom 

an-soul ! 
Thou  boldest  in   the  compass  of 

thy  grace 
All  the  strange  tale  and  passion  of 

thy  race; 
Of     the    old,    primal    curse    thou 

knowest  the  whole: 
Thine,  eyes,  too  wise,  are  lieavy  with 

tlie  dole, 
The   doubt,   the  dread   ot  all   tbifl 

human  maze; 


232 


aiLDF.n. 


Thou  in  the  virgin  inoming  of  thy 

days 
Hast  felt  the  hittiT  \vatei"s  o'er  thee 

roll. 
Vet  thoii  knowest,  too,  the  terrible 

flciii^ht, 
The    still    content,    and     solemn 

ecst;isy ; 
Whatever  sharp,   sweet  bliss   thy 

kind  may  know. 
Thy  sjiirit  is  deep  for  pleasure  as  for 

woe  — 
Deep  as  tlie  rich,  dark-cavemed, 

awful  sea 
That  the  keen-winded,  gUmmering 

dawn  makes  white. 


T]V<)   I.OIF.   QUATltAIXS. 

Not  from  the  whole   wide  worlil    I 
choose  thet^  — 
Sweetheart,  li.uht  of  the  land  and 
the  sea! 
The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  en- 
close thee. 
For  thou  art  tlie  whole  wide  world 
to  me. 


Ykarh  have  flown  since  1  knew  thee 
first, 

And  I  know  tli«;e  as  water  is  known 
of  tiiii-st: 

Yet  I  knew  thee  of  oM  at  flie  lirst 
sweet  si^lit, 

And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  love,  to- 
night. 


if'JUT  h'or/.f)  I  SAVE  rmi: 

FUOM. 

What  would  I  save  thee  from,  dear 

heart,  dear  heart  ? 
Not  from   wliat  heaven   may  send 

line  of  lis  |iain  ; 
Not  from    lieree  sunslune  or  tlie 

Heatliing  rain: 
The    pang   of  pleasure;  passion's 

woiuhI  and  smart ; 
Not    from   the   seoru   and   sorrow  of 

thine  art; 


Nor  loss  of  faithful  fiends,   no\ 

any  gain 
Of  growth  by  grief.     I  would  not 

tliee  restrain 
From  needful  death.     Hut  oh,  tliou 

other  i)art 
Of  me!  —  through   whom  the  wholt 

world  1  behold. 
As  through  tlie  blue  1  see  the  sUir^ 

above! 
In    whom   the   world    I    liiid.    hid 

fol.l  on  fol.l! 
Tiiee  would  1  savefromlliis  —  nay,  do 

not  move! 
Fear  not,  it   may  not  llasli,  the  air 

is  coM; 
Save  tliee  from  tiiis  —  the  light iiiiig 

of  my  love. 


/   (OUST  MY    TIMF   liY   TIMFS 
TllAT  1   MELT  TUEi:. 

I    coi'NT  my  time  by  times  that    I 

meet  thee; 
These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  mor- 
rows, noons. 
And   nights;  these  my  olil  moons 

and  my  new  moons. 
Slow    (ly    the    hours,    or   fast   the 

hours  do  llee. 
If  thou  art  far  from  or  art   near  to 

me: 
If    tliou   art    far,   the   birds'   luues 

are  no  tunes; 
if  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days 

ail'  .limes, — 
Darkness  is  liglit,  and   sorrow  can 

not  be. 
Thou  art  my  dream  come  trui>,   and 

tliou  niv  dream. 
Theair  I  bie.iibe.  th.' woHd  where- 
in I  dwell; 
.My   Joiinii-y's  end    thoii   ai1,    and 

thou  the  wjiy; 
Thou  art  what    I    voiild   be,  yet    only 

nei'm ; 
'I'hon  art  mv  heaven  .ind  llioii  art 

my  li.ll: 
'I'lion  art  my  ever-living  judgment/ 

da  v. 


GILDER. 


233 


L0VEP9  JEALOUSY. 

AND    WERE  THAT  BEST? 

Of  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, 

And  were  that  best.  Love,  dreamless, 

Nor  of  the  maid  who  holds  thee 

endless  sleep '? 

close,  oh,  close: 

Gone   all   the  fury  of  the  mortal 

But    of    the    June-red,    summer- 

day; 

scented  rose, 

The  daylight  gone,  and  gone  the 

And  of  the  orange-streaked  sunset 

starry  ray! 

sky 

And  were  that  best.  Love,  rest  se- 

That wins  the  soul  of  thee  through 

rene  and  deep  ? 

thy  deep  eye ; 

Gone  labor  and  desire;  no  arduoa" 

And  of  the  breeze  by  thee  beloved, 

steep 

that  goes 

To   climb,   no  songs  to   sing,   no 

O'er  thy  dear  hair  and   brow;  the 

prayers  to  pray, 

song  that  flows 

No  lielp  for  tliose  who  perish  by 

Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  where  it 

the  way, 

may  die. 

No  laughter  'midst  our  tears,  no 

I  would  I   were  one  moment  that 

tears  to  weep ! 

sweet  show 

And  were  that  best.  Love,  sleep  with 

Of  flower;  or  l)reeze  beloved  that 

no  dear  dream, 

toucheth  all ; 

Nor  memory  of  any  thing  in  life  ? 

Or  sky  that  through  the  summer 

8tark  death  that  neitlier  help  nor 

eve  doth  burn. 

hurl  can  know! 

I  would  I  were  the  song  thou  lovestso. 

Oh,  rallier,  Love,  the  sorrow-bring- 

At sound  of  me  to  have  thine  eye- 

ing gleam, 

lid  fall: 

Tlie  living  day's  long  agony  and 

But  I  would   then  to  something 

strife! 

human  turn. 

Kather  strong  love  in  pain, —  the 

waking  woe ! 

A  TUOUOHT. 

Once,  looking  from  a  window  on  a 

land 

THItOUGfJ  LOVE  TO  LIGHT. 

That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the 

sun; 

Through  love  to  light!  Oh,  wonder- 

A land  of  broad,  green    meadows. 

ful  the  way 

through  wliich  poured 

That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  per- 

Two rivers,  slowly  winding  to  the 

fect  day! 

sea, — 

From  darkness  and   from  sorrow  of 

Thus,  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how 

the  ni',dit 

or  whence. 

To  morning  that  comes  suiging  o'er 

Was  borne  into  my  unexpectant  soul 

the  sea. 

Tiiat  thought,  late  leanied  by  anx- 

Through   love    to    li^hl!      Through 

ioas-witted  man. 

light,  O  God,  to  thee. 

The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal 

Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal 

Mind. 

light  of  light  I 

•J34 


O  OLDS  Ml  TIL 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


iFYom  The  Desirfcf  yirfagt.] 

Till:   VILLAGE  PREACHEli. 

Xeai:  yonder  copse,  where  once 
tlif  garden  smiled, 

.\nd  still  wliere  mauy  a gardcu  flower 
growb  will. 

There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the 
place  disclose, 

The  village  i)reacher'8  modest  man- 
sion rose. 

A  man  lie  was  to  all  the  cotuitiy  dear. 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds 
a  year; 

Remote  from  towiis  he  ran  his  goilly 
race, 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to 
change  liis  place; 

Unskilful  ho  to  fawn,  or  seek  for 
power 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  vary- 
ing hour; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  ha<l  learned 
to  prize  — 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than 
trj  rise. 

His  hou-se  was  known  to  all  the  va- 
grant train; 

He  cldd  (heir  wanderings,  but  re- 
lieved tlnir  pain. 

The  long-reiueinberi'd  beggar  was  his 
guest, 

Whose  beard,  descending,  swt'i>t  his 
aged  breast ; 

Tilt!  ruined  sjiendthrift,  now  no 
longer  iirouil. 

(Maimed  kindred  then;,  and  Imd  his 
ilainis  allowed; 

I'he  broken  soiditT,  kindly  baile  t<j 
slay, 

Sate  by  his  lire,  and  talked  the  night 
away  — 

Wept  o'<'r  his  woun<ls,  or,  tales  of 
soiTow  done. 

Shouldered  his  cnitch,  and  showed 
how  fli'Ms  wi-re  won. 

rieast'd  with  Ids  giiest.s,  tin-  good  man 
ifaru'il  (o  glow. 

And  fpiiie  forgot  their  vices  in  their 
woe; 


Careless  their  merits  or  tlieir  faidts 

to  scan, 
His  pity  gave,  ere  charity  began. 

Tints  to  relieve  the  wretched  was 

his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  vir- 
tue's side; 
But  in  liis  duty,  prompt  at  ever\'  call, 
lie  watched  and  wept,  lie  prayed  and 

f»'lt   for  all; 
.\n(l,  as  a  Ijird  each  fond  endearment 

tries 
To   tempt    its  new-fledged  ofFsprim; 

to  tht>  skies. 
He  tried  eacl>  art,  reproved  each  dull 

delay, 
Alhu'ed  to  l)righter  worlds,  and  leo 

the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life 
was  laid. 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  paiu,  b\  turn-< 
dismayed. 

The  reverend  (•liamj)lon  stoo<l.  .\t 
his  control 

Despair  and  am^uisli  (led  the  strug- 
gling soul; 

Comfort  canif  ilown  the  trend)ling 
wretch  to  raise, 

.\nd  his  last  falhring  accents  whis- 
pered prai^i'. 

At  chinch,  with  meek  and    unaf- 
fected gnice. 
His    looks     adorutnl    the    venerable 

i.la.-..; 
Tnith   from  Ids  lips  prevailed    with 

doiilili'  sway. 
And    fools,    who  <amc   to  scoff,  re- 

maint^d  to  |>r.iy. 
The  service  past,  around   (he  pious 

man,  ['"an; 

With   ready  zeal,  each   honest  rustic 
K'ell  rhildreli  followed,  witli  endear- 

ini:  w  ilf, 
.\nd  plucked   his  gown,  (o  share  the 

gooil  man's  sndle. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth 

exprest; 


GOLDSMITH. 


235 


Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their 

cares  distressed; 
To    them    his    heart,   his  love,   his 

griefs  were  given  — 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest 

in  ho;iveu. 
As  some  tali  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful 

form, 
Swells    from  the  vale,  and  midway 

leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling 

clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 


[From  The  Deserted  Village.} 
THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Besidk  yon  straggling  fence  that 

skirts  the  way, 
With    blossomed   furze  improfitably 

gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled 

to  rule, 
riie  village  master  taught  his  little 

school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to 

view  — 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant 

knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tfemblers learned 

to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning 

face; 
Full  well  they  laughed,  with  coun- 
terfeited glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had 

he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling 

round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he 

frowned ; 
Yet  he  was  kind  —  or,  if  severe  in 

augiit. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in 

fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he 

knew; 
'T  was  certain   he  could  write,  and 

ciphor  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and 

tides  presage, 


And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could 

gauge. 
In   arguing,   too,  the  parson  ownetl 

his  skill, 
For,    e'en    though    vanquished,    he 

could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and 

thmidering  sound 
Amazed    the    gazing  rustics   ranged 

around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still   the 

wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all 

he  knew. 


[From  The  Deserted  Village.] 

THE   HAPPINESS    OF   PASSIXG  ONE'S 

AGE   IN  FAMILIAR    PLACES- 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this 

world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given 

my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hoiu's  to 

crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay 

me  down ; 
To  husban.d   out  life's  taper  at   the 

close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by 

repose ; 
I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends 

us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  shoM'  my  book- 
learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to 

draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and 

horns  pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at 

first  she  lltnv, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations 

past. 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at 

last. 

O  blest  retirement!    friend  to  life's 
de<'line! 
Ketreat    fioia  care,  that  never  must 

be  i.iilli'! 


236 


GOLDSMITH. 


Flow  blt'st  is  hf  who  crowns,  in  shados 

(ike  tin-so, 
A  youtli  of  labor,  with  an  ageof  easo; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  terap- 

t;itions  try, 
And,  since  'l  is  hard  to  combat,  learns 

to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  bom  to  work 

and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dan- 
gerous deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state. 
To  si)urn  imploring  famine  from  the 

gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter 

end, 
Angels  around   befriending  virtue's 

friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived 

decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the 

w  ay ; 
And,  all  liis  i)rospect3  brightening  to 

the  last. 
His  heaven  commences,  ere  the  world 

be  pu^t. 


[From  The  7\-aveller.] 

FRANCE. 

Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and 
social  ease. 

Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the 
world  can  please. 

How  ofU'u  have  1  led  thy  sportive 
choir. 

With  tuneli-ss  pipe,  beside  the  iiiiir- 
muriiig  Loire! 

Where  shading  elm.s  along  the  mar- 
gin «rew. 

And  fresbi'iicd  from  the  wave  the 
7,<-I>liyr  llfw ; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch, 
fallrring  still. 

But  moeknl  all  tune,  and  marred  the 
danivr's  skill. 

Y<'l  would  the  villiigf  ])raise  my  won- 
drous i)OWfr, 

And  datif.',  forg'tful  of  thi-  noontide 
hour. 

Allkr  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient 
(laya 


Have  led  tlnir  children  through  the 

mirthful  maze, 
.\nd    the   gay   grandsire,   skilled    in 

gestie  lorr. 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of 

threescore. 
So   blest   a  life   these   thoughtless 

realms  display. 
Thus  idly  Imsy  rolls  their  world  away: 
Theii-s   are  those  arts  that  .nind  to 

mintl  entlear, 
For  honor  forms  the  social  temper 

here: 
Honor,  that   praise  which  real  merit 

■v'aius 
Or  e'en  inuiLjinary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  ciurcut;  paid  from  hand 

tu  hand. 
It  shifts  in  si)lei(did  traffic  roimd  the 

land: 
From  courts,  to  camps,  to  cottages  it 

strays. 
And    all   are  taught  an    avariee  of 

prai>e; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give 

to  get  esteem. 
Till,    seeming    blest,   they    grow   to 

what  tliey  seem. 
But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss 

supplies. 
It  gives  their  follies  al.so  room  to  rise; 
For  pniise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warm- 
ly sought, 
Enfeebles  all    internal    strength    «if 

thought; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  im- 

blest. 
Leans  for  all  ph'asure  on  another's 

breast. 
Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry 

art. 
Pants   for  the  vulgar   pniise   which 

fools  imi'.irt ;  |ace. 

Here  Vanity  a^^unies  her  pert  grim- 
.\iid   trims   In-r  robe  of   frieze    with 

copper  luce; 
Here  l»egi,'iir  I'ri'le  defmuds  her  daily 

eheer. 
'I'o  bo.ist  (ii)c  splendid  liauijuel  oncfl 

a  yi.ir; 
The  mind   si  ill  turns  whiie  shifting 

f.isliion  draws 
Nor  wej'^'lis  ilie  solid  woicli  of  m-lt- 

uppluu«e. 


GOOD  ALE. 


23" 


{From  Tlie  Oratorio  of  the  Captivifi/.] 
HOPE. 

The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to 

part, 
Still,  still  on  hope  relies; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart, 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,   like  the  glimmering   taper's 
light. 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  day. 


[From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity.] 
THE   PROPHETS'  SONG. 

Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below. 
To  Him  we  turn  our  eyes ; 

And  every  added  weight  of  woe, 
bhall  make  our  homage  rise. 


And  though  no  temple  richly  dressed, 

Nor  sacrifice  is  here; 
We'll  make  His  temple  incur  breast, 

And  offer  up  a  tear. 


[From  The  Oratorio  of  the  CaptivUy.l 
AIEMOR  Y. 

O  Memory!  thou  fond  deceiver, 
Still  importunate  and  vain. 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever. 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain ! 

Then,  like  the  world,  the  oppressed 
oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's 
woe ; 
And  he  who  wants  each  other  bless- 
ings 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


Dora  Read  Goodale. 


UIPB  GRALV. 

0    STILL.,    white   face    of    perfect 
peace, 
Untouched  by  passion,  freed  from 
pain, — 
He  who  ordained  that  work  should 
cease. 
Took  to  Himself  the  ripened  grain. 


O  noble  face !  your  beauty  bears 
The  glory  that  is  wrung  from  pain, 

The  high  celestial  bfauly  wears 
Of  finished  work,  of  ripened  grain. 

Of  human  care  yo'.  -eft  no  trace. 
No  liglitost  trace  of  grief  or  pain,— 

On  earth  an  em]ity  foini  and  face  — 
In  Heaven  stands  the  ripened  grain. 


Elaine  Goodale. 


ASHES   OF  nOSES. 


Soft  on  the  sunset  sky 

Bright  daylight  dosos. 
Leaving,  when  li<,'ht  doth  dii 
Pale  hues  that  mingling  lie.- 
Ashes  of  roses. 


WluMi  Love's  warm  sun  is  set, 

Love's  brightness  closes; 
Eyes  with  bot  tears  are  wet, 
Ii»  hearts  then  linger  yet 
Ashes  of  roses. 


238 


GOULD. 


Hannah   Flagg   Gould. 


THE  SOUL'S  FAUEWELL. 

\l  uiiiijl  be  so.  poor,   fadiug,  mortal 
thing! 
And  iinv  we  part,  thou  pallid  form 
of  ciay ! 
rhy  hold  is  broken  —  1   unfurl  my 
wini,'; 
And  from  the  dust  ihi  j.jiril  nIu^t 
away  I 

Ab  thou  at  night,  hast  thrown  thy 
vesture  by, 
Tired   witli   the  day,   to  seek  tliy 
wonted  rust, 
F.Uigued  with  time's  vain  round,  'tis 
thus  that  I 
Of  thee,  frail  coveriug,  myself  di- 
vest. 

Tliou  knowest,  whll^  journeying  in 
tliis  thorny  road. 
How  oft  we've  siphed  and  strug- 
glt<l  to  be  twam; 
How  I  have  longed  to  drop  n:y  earth- 
ly lou.l, 
And  thou,   to  rest  thee  from  thy 
tod  and  paiu. 

Then  he,  who  severe  our  mysterious 
tie, 
Is  a  kin('  angel,  granting  each  re- 
lease ; 
He'll    seal    thy    quivering    lip    and 
sunlcen  eye. 
Ami   stainj)   thy  brow  witli   ever- 
lasting peace. 

When  thou  hast  lost  the  beauty  that  1 
nave, 
•Vud  life's  gay  scene.s  no  more  will 
give  thee  place,  I 

Thou  inay'st  retire  within  the  secret 
gravi-, 
When- none  shall  look  upon  liiiu"- 
altt^red  face. 

Hut  I  am  snmmone<i  to  (he  elernal 
throne, 
To  m<  <i  I  lie  presence  of  the  King 
moat  high; 


I  go  to  -stand  unsiirouded  and  alone. 
Full  in  the  light  of  (ioil's  ail-search 
ing  eye. 

There  must  the  deeds  which  wc  to- 
gether wrought, 
lie  all  rememl)ered — each  a  wit 
ness  maiie; 
iho  outward  action  and  the  secret 
th  night 
iiefore  the  silent  soul  must  ihera 
be  weighed. 

Lo!  I  behold  the  seraph  throng  de- 
scend 
To  waft  me  up  where  love  ant 
mercy  dwtll; 
Away,  vain  fears!  the  Judge  will  hi 
my  friend; 
It  is  my  Father  calls  —  p;ile  day 
farewell! 


A   SAME  ly   THE  SAXD. 

.\lonk  I  walketl  the  ocean  strand; 
A  i)early  shell  Wiis  in  my  hand: 
1  stooped  and  wrote  upon  I  he  sand 

My  name  —  the  year  —  the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  sjmt  1  i)assed, 
(3ne  lingering  l<jok  behind  I  cast: 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast, 

Ami  washed  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methoui;ht,  'twill  shortly  bo 
Willi  every  mark  on  »'arlh  from  me: 
.\  wavi'  of  dark  oblivion's  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  jilace 
Where  1  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  time,  and  been  to  be  no  more. 
Of  me  —  my  day  —  Ihe  nann-  i  l)ore, 

To  leave  nor  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Ilim  who  ooimts  th« 

sands. 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
i  know  a  lasliiiL,'  record  stands. 

Inscribed  airainst  my  name. 

<  >f  all  Ibis  mortal  ]iarl  ha.s  wrought; 

( )f  all  Ibis  Ibinkim;  soul  lias  ||ioiil;|iI  , 

And    from    these    Heeling    momenU 

caught 

For  glory  or  for  shame. 


QRAHAME. 


239 


James  Grahame. 


{From  The  Sabbath.] 
SABBATH  MORNING. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hal- 
lowed (lay! 

Mute  is  the  voice  of    rural    labor, 
hushed 

The    ploughboy's   whistle    and    the 
milkmaid's  song. 

The  scjrthe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy 
wreath 

Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading 
flowers, 

That  yester-morn    bloomed  waving 
in  the  breeze. 

Sounds  the  most  faint   attract  the 
ear, —  the  Inmi 

Of   early   bee,  the   trickling  of  the 
dew, 

The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the 
hill. 

Calmness  seems  throned  on  yon  un- 
raoving  cloud. 

To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland 
leas, 

The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower 
from  the  dale; 

And  sweeter  from  tlae  sky  the  glad- 
some lark 

Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song;  the 
lulling  brook 

Murmurs    more    gently    down     the 
deep-sunk  glen; 

While  from   yon   lowly  roof,  whose 
curling  smoke 

O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  in- 
tervals 

The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song 
of  praise. 
With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o'er 
yon  village  broods: 

The  dizzying  mill-wheel   rests;  the 
anvil's  din 

Hath  ceased;  all,  all  around  is  quiet- 
ness. 

Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limpiug 
hare 


Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and 

looks  on  man. 
Her   deadliest    foe.     The    toil-worn 

horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at 

large ; 
And,  as  his  stiff  unwieldy  bulk  he 

rolls, 
His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the 

morning  ray. 
But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest 

enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath!  thee  I  hail,  the  poor 

man's  day. 
On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is 

doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely,  the 

gromid 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from 

the  winter's  cold 
And  summer's  heat  by  neighboring 

hedge  or  tree; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his 

home, 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those 

he  loves; 
With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the 

heartfelt  joy 
Of   giving    thanks    to     God,  —  not 

thanks  of  form. 
A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently, 
With  covered  face  and  upward  ear- 
nest eye. 
Hail,  Sabbath!  thee  I  hail,  the  poor 

man's  day: 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  \.< 

breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city': 

smoke ; 
While  wandering  slowly  up  the  rivei 

side. 
He  meditates  on  Him  whose  powei 

he  marks 
In    each    green    tree    that    proudly 

spreads  the  bough. 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  thai 

bloom 
Around  the  roots. 


240 


a  HAY. 


Elinor  Gray. 


ISOLATlOa. 


Wk  walk  alone  throuerh  all  life's  va- 

linii-i  ways, 
Tliroiiuii  li:.,'lit  ami  darknoss,  sorrow, 

joy,  and  I'liaii^c; 
And  lirt'cliii^  each  to  fadi,  through 

passin;^  days, 

tjtill  we  are  strange. 

Wt>  hold  our  dear  ones  with  a  lirai, 

strong  grasp; 
We  hear  their  voices,  look  into  their 

eyes; 
And  yet,  hetwixt  us  in  that  dinging 

clasp 

A  distance  lies. 

We  cannot  kno'f  their  hearts^  how- 

e'cr  \vt'  may 
Mingle  thought,  aspiration,  hope  and 

prayer; 


We  cannot  reach  them,  and  In  vain 
essay 

To  enter  there. 

Still,  in  each  heart  of  hearts  a  hid- 
den  deep 

Lies,  never  fatliomod  by  its  dearest, 
l)est. 

With  closest  cjire  oiu*  purest  thoughts 
we  keep. 

Ami  tenderest. 

But,   blessed  thought!  we  shall   not 

always  so 
In    darkness    and    in    sadness    walk 

alone; 
'I'here  comes  a  glorious  day  when  we 

shall  know 

As  we  are  known. 


Thomas  Gray. 


ELEGY  IN  A    COUSTUy    ( llURril 

YAUl). 

TiiK  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 

day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o  er 

the  iea, 
The  plonuhnian  honicwanl  plods  his 

Weary  way. 
And    leaves   the    world    iu   darkness 

and  to  nit>. 

Vow  fades  the  Klinunering  landseai>e 

on  the  sight, 
And   all   the  air  a  sohinn   slillness 

holds, 
have    where    the    l)eetle    wheels    his 

droiiiii'.'  tliudit. 
And  drowsv  t inklings  lull  the  dist.-int 

folds: 


Save  that   from  yonder  ivy-mantled 

tower. 
The  mopim;  owl  does  to  the  moon 

complain 
( )f  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret 

huwcr. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  nigged  elms,  that  yew. 

tree's  shade. 
Where   iieaves   the   turf  in  many  a 

monlderinu  ln-ap, 
Kaeh  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 
The  rude  forefathers  of   the  hamlet 

sleej). 

The  breezy  call  of  Inccnsc-hreathing 

)norn. 
The    swallow    iwiliering    from    th« 

slraw-huilt  shed, 


ORAY. 


241 


The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echo- 
ing: horn, 

No  more  shall  ronse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth 
shall  burn,  [care: 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening 

No  chililren  run  to  lisp  their  sire's 
return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 
sliare. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle 

yield, 
Tlieir  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe 

has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 

afield ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their 

sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  tlieir  useful 
toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  ob- 
scure! [smile 

Nor  Grandeiu"  hear  with  a  disdainful 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of 

power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth 

e'er  gave. 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour, — 
Tlie  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 

grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  thescr 

the  fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies 

raise, 
WTiere  Lhroucch  the  long-tlrawn  aisle 

and  frettt'd  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note 

of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust. 
Back  to  its  m;insion  call  the  tleeting 

brealli  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent 

dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of 

death  ? 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celes- 
tial fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  miijlit 
have  swayed. 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre: 

But  knowh'dge  to  their  eyes  her  am- 
ple page 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er 
unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble 
rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the 
soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean 

bear: 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush 

unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 

air. 

Some  village    Hampden,  that  with 

dauntless  breast. 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  will:- 

stood ; 
Some   mute   inglorious   Milton   here 

may  rest. 
Some  <"romwell,  guiltless  of  his  coiui- 

try's  blood. 

The  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to 
command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  de- 
spise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's 
eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade:  Tior  ciroumscril)e(' 

alone 
Their    growing    virtues,    but     tliei: 

crimes  confined; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter 

to  a  throne. 
And  siiiit  the  <4ates  of  mercy  on  man- 


The   struggling   i>angs   of    conscious 

inui:   to  bide. 
To  queueh  the  blushes  of  ingeiuioiiy 

shame. 


242 


GRAF. 


Or  hpap  the  slirino  of  luxun'  and 

I)ritli' 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's 

flame. 

Far  froin  the  madding  crowd's  igno- 
ble strife 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to 
stray; 

Alons  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of 
life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 
way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to 

protect 
Some    frail    memorial    still    erected 

nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  auil  shapeless 

sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the 

unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she 

strews. 
That  teach  the  nistlc  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  diunb  forgetfulncss  a 
prey. 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  re- 
signed, 

Left  the  warm  i)recinct.s(>f  the  cheer- 
ful day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look 
behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul 

relies; 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 

<iuires; 
K'en    from    the   tomb   the   voice   of 

Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  thrir  wonted 

fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindiul  of  the  uu- 

bonored  dead, 
Dost  in  thesf  lines  their  artless  tale 

n-latr;  (led. 

If  chanc*',   by  lonely  contemiilation 
Some  kindn-d  si.irlt  xhall  imiuirc  tliv 


fat.,— 


Haply  some  hoarj'-headed  swain  ma\ 

say. 
(^ff  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 

dawn, 
lirushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews 

away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon   the  uplnu  I 

lawn ; 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  noildin  , 
beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots 
so  high. 

Ilis  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would 
he  stretch. 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  bab- 
bles by. 

Hard  by  yon  woo«l,  now  smiling  as 

in  scorn. 
Muttering   his   waywanl   fancies    he 

would  rove; 
Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like   one 

forlorn. 
Or  crazed   with  care,  or  crossed    in 

bojieless  love. 

One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'eus- 
tollied  bill. 

Along  the  lieaili,  and  near  his  favor- 
ite free; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the 
rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  tiie  wood 
was  he; 

The  n<'xt  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
.Slow   tlimugb    the  church-way  palli 

we  saw  him  borne, — 
Approach  ami  read  (for  thoti  caiisl 

read)  the  lay 
CJmved    on    the    viniH-    ti.-iHvith    yon 

aged  thorn. 


Tin:  KPiTAni. 

llKltK  rests  bis  be;id  ujion  the  lap  of 
earth 

A  yoiUb,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  im- 
known ; 

FairScjenec  frowned  n<»t  on  his  hum- 
ble birth. 

.\nd  Meljunlioly  maiked  him  for  her 
own. 


GRAY. 


24? 


Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul 

sincere; 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely 

send : 
He  gave  to  misery  ail  he  had,  a  tear. 
He  gained  from  Heaven,  't  was  all  he 

wished,  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or    draw    his    frailties    from    theii' 

dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope 

repose, ) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ODE   O.V  THE  SPHTXG. 

TjO  i  where  the  rosy-bosomed  hours 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers 

And  wake  the  purple  year! 
'i'lie  Attic  warbler  jiours  her  throat 
lu'sponsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note. 

The  untaught  harmony  of  spring: 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  Ily, 
Cool  zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue 
sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches 
stretch 
A  broader,  browner  shade. 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown 
beech 
O'er  canopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  mo  the  Muse  shall    sit,   and 
think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  arc  the  proud. 
How  indigent  the  groat; 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care; 

Tlio  panting  liords  repose: 
Yet  liark,  how  thro'  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  nnu'mur  glows : 
The  insect  youtli  are  on  the  wing. 
Eager  to  taste  the  honoyod  spring 

And  float  amid  the  liipiid  noon: 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim. 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

Quick-glanciug  to  the  sim. 


To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  t\\ 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day. 

In  fortune's  varying  colors  drest : 
Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  miS' 

chance 
Or  chilled  \>\  age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply: 
Poor  moralist!  and  what  art  thou? 

A  solitary  fly! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets. 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets. 

No  painted  plumage  to  display: 
On  hasty  wings  Ihy  youth  is  flown ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone, — 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 


THE   PLEASURE  A/USIXG  FliOM 
VIClSSITUnE. 

Smii,f;s  on  past  Mi.sforiune's  brow 
Soft  Reflection's  hand  can  trace. 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  Sorrow  throw 

A  moliuicholy  grace; 
AVhile   hope    prolongs    oiu"    happioi 

hour. 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lower 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way. 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still,  where  rosy  Pleasure  leads, 

See  a  kindred  Grief  iiursue; 
Behind  the  steps  that  Misoiy  treads 

Approaching  Comfort  viow: 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  ttriglitly  gli; 
Chastised  by  sahlor  tints  of  woo. 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  stril' 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain. 
At  lonixth  ropair  his  vigor  lost    • 
And  breathe  and  walk  again: 
The  mo;most  lloworot  of  tlio  vale. 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  ga/c 
The  connnon  sun,  the  air.  the  skiei 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise 


244 


ORAF. 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPKCT  OF 
ETON. 

Vk  ilistaiU  spiivs,  ye  antitiiu»  towfi-s, 

Tlial  crown  the  wat'ry  !xla<le, 
Wlicre  pratcful  Science  still  adores 

Hit  Henry""*  holy  shailel 
Aiitl  yc,  that  from  tlie  stately  brow 
of    Wijulsor's   heights    the   expanse 
helow 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survt'y. 
Whose    turf,    whose    shade,    whose 

flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver  winding  way. 

Ah,  happy  hills  I  ah,  pleasing  shade  I 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain! 
Where   once   my   careless  childhood 
strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  I 
I  feel  the  gales,  thai  from  ye  bK>w, 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As    waving   fresh    their  gladsome 
wing, 
My  wear>'  soul  they  seem  to  sooth, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  an<l  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

.Say,  Father  Thames  (for  thou  hast 
seen 

Full  many  a  sjirightly  race, 
Disportiiiii  on  thy  margcnt  green, 

The  patlis  of  i)lca^in'c  trace). 
Who  forcMiosi  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  tliv  u'la-^y  wave'.' 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral  ? 
Wiial  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  ein-le's   spei'd. 

Or  urge  the  Hying  ball ".' 

While sonii'.  on  earnest  business  bent, 

Tlieir  miirm'ring  labors  ))ly 
"(Jainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  con- 
st r.iint 

To  sweeten  liberty: 
Some  l>old  advent nrers  disdain 
Tin-  limits  of  their  little  reign. 

And    imknown    regions    dare    rle- 
Mcry. 
.Still  as  iliey  run  Ihev  look  behind, 
They  bear  a  voice  in  every  wind. 

And  8nut<'b  a  fearful  joy. 


(Jay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  plcRsinj,  wlien  jwssest; 
The  tear  forgot  as  ^oon  as  shed. 

The  sunshine  of  the  brcjusl : 
Theirs  l)ux<)m  health,  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new. 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigor  born; 
The  thoughtless  day.  tin-  easy  nij'b!. 
The  spiiits.i)ure,  tin-  slnmbei-s  light 

That  lly  the  approach  of  niorn. 

Alas',  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come. 

Nor  care  beyoiul  to-«lay: 
Vet  see  h<iw  all  arouuil  ilicm  wail 
The  ministers  of  human  fate 

Anil    black    misfortime's     iialeful 
train! 
Ah.   show    them   where   in   jiuibush 

stand. 
To  seize  tiieir  prey,  the  nnuderou> 
band! 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  I 

These  shall  tlu'  fury  passions  tear. 

The  vultures  of  the  mind. 
Disdainful  awger,  pallid  fear. 

And  shame  that  skulks  behind; 
Or    pining    love    shall    waste    then 

youth. 
Or  jealousy  with  rankling  tooth 

'I'hat  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart. 
And  envy  wan.  and  faded  care. 
(Jrim-visaged  comfortless  despair. 

And  sorrow's  i)iercing  tlarl. 

.\nd)ition  this  shall  temi)t  to  rise, 

'I'hen  whirl  the  wretch  from  i.i-li 
To  bitter  scorn  a  sacrilice 

And  grinning  infamy. 
The  stings  of  falseh(H)d  those  shal' 

try, 
.\nd  hard  luikindncss'  altered  eye. 

That    mocks  the  tear  it  for I   to 

Mow: 
And  keen  remorse  with  blood  deliled. 
And  moody  madness  laiiubini:  wild 

Amid  severest  woe. 

I-o.  in  the  Vale  of  ^■ear^  III  ll.Mtll 

.\  grisly  troop  are  seen. 
The  painfid  family  of  l)e:ilb, 

.More  liideuilit  than  their  i|Uec>u: 


GUSTAFSON. 


245 


This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the 

volns, 
That  every  laboring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage: 
Lo,  poverty,  to  lill  the  hand, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  ioy  hand. 

And  slow-consuming  age. 

To  each  his  sufferings :  all  are  men, 
Condemned  alike  to  groan; 


The  tender  for  another's  pain, 
The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 

Yet,  ah !  why  sliould  they  know  theii 
fate. 

Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late. 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 

Thought  woulil   destroy  their  para- 
"disc ! 

No  more, —  where  ignorance  is  bliss 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


Zadel   Barnes   Gustafson. 


LITTLE  MARTIN  CRAGIIAN. 

One  reads  tomeMacaulay's  "  Lays" 
With  fervid  voice,  intoning  well 

The  poet's  fire,  the  vocal  grace; 
They  hold  me  like  a  spell. 

'Twere  marvel  if  in  human  veins 

Could  beat  a  pulse  so  cold 
It  would  not  quicken  to  the  strains, 
'i'lie  flying,  fiery  strains,  that  tell 
How  Romans  "kept  the  bridge   so 
well 
In  the  brave  days  of  old." 

The  while  I  listened,  till  my  blood. 
Plunged  in  the  poet's  martial  mood, 

Rusheil  in  my  veins  like  wine, 
I  prayed, —  to  One  who  hears,  I  wis; 
'"Give  me  one  breath  of  power  like 
this 

To  sing  of  Pittston  mine!" 

A   child  looks  U])  the  ragged  shaft. 

A  boy  whose  meagre  frame 
Shrinks    as    he    hears    the    roai'ing 
draught 

That  feeds  the  eag>'r  flame. 

lie  lias  a  sintrle  chance;  the  stakes 

Of  lif(>  show  death  at  bay 
One  moment;  then  his  conuade  takes 

The  hop(>  he  casts  away. 

Forwhile  histreniblini,'hand  is  raised. 
And  while  his  sweet  eyes  shine;. 

There  swells  above  the  love  of  life 
The  rush  of  love  divine, — 


The  thought  of   those  unwarned,  to 
whom 
Death  steals  along  the  mine. 

0  little  Martin  C'raghan! 
I  reck  not  if  you  swore. 

Like  Porsena  of  Clusium, 

By  gods  of  mythic  lore ; 
But  well  1  ween  as  great  a  heart 

Beat  your  small  bosom  sore. 

And  that  your  bare  brown  feet  scarce 
felt 
The  way  they  bounded  o'er. 

1  know  you  were  a  hero  then, 
Whate'er  you  were  before; 

And  in  God's  sight  your  flying  feet 
Made  white  the  cavern  floor. 

The  while  he  speeds  that  darksome 
way, 

Mope  paints  u])on  his  fears 
Soft  visions  of  the  liglit  of  day; 

Faint  songs  of  l)ir(ls  he  ln'ars; 
in  sunnncr  broc/.e  bis  tangled  curls 

Are  blown  about  his  ears. 

He  sees  the  men ;  he  warns ;  and  now, 

His  duty  liravely  done. 
Sweet    hope   may   paint   the   fairest 
scene 

That  spreads  beneath  the  sun. 

Back  to  the  burning  shaft  he  flies; 

There  bounding  pulses  fail; 
The  light  forsakes  his  lifted  eyes; 

Tlie  glowing  cheek  is  pale. 


246 


OUSTAFSON. 


With    wheeling,    whirling,     hungry 
tlaiue, 

Tho  seething  shaft  is  rife: 
Where  soMiJ  chains  thip  litiuid  tire. 

What  eliance  for  human  life  '.' 

To  (lie  with  those  he  hoped  to  save. 

Back,    back,    through     heat    and 
gloom. 
To  find  a  wall. —  and  Di'ath  ami  he 

Shut  in  the  larger  tomb  I 

lie  pleaded  to  he  taken  in 
As  closer  rolled  the  smoke; 

111  dt-athfu]  vapors  they  could  hear 
His  piteous  accents  choke. 

Ami  tiiey,  with   shaking   voice,    re- 
fused ; 
And  then  the  yoimg  heart  broke. 

Oh  love  of  life!    God  made  it  strong. 
And  knows  how  close  it  i)ressed; 

And  death   to  those   who  love    life 
least 
Is  scarce  a  welcome  guest. 

One  thought  of  the  poor  wife,  whose 
head 

Last  night  lay  on  his  breast: 
A  fiuivcr  runs  through  lips  that  morn 

liy  children's  lips  caressed. 

These     things     the     sweet     strong 
tlioughts  of  liome, — 

Though  l)ut  a  wretched  place. 
To  wliicli  the  sad-ryci!  miners  come 

Willi  Labor's  lai^i^ard  pace. — 
Kcmciiibcred  in  the  cavern  gloom, 

Illume  the  haggard  face, — 

Illumed    their    faces,    steeled     each 
heart. 

()  (Jod!  what  myslcrics 
f)f  brave  and  ba^e  make  sum  .md  ]iarl 

( >f  biimaii  liistorii's! 
What  will  not  thy  poor  creatures  do 

'I'o  buy  an  hour  of  breath! 
Well  for  us  all  some  souls  are  true 

Above  the  fear  of  death  ! 

He  wept  a  little, —  for  they  heard 
'I'hi'  Hotind  of  sobs,  the  sli^hs 

That  brealli'd  I  if  marly  nloni  complete 
UD8«eo  of  mortal  eyes, — 


And  then,  no  longer  swift,  his  feet 
Passed  down  the  gjilleries. 

lie  crept   and   crouched   beside  his 
mule. 
Led  by  its  dying  moan; 
He  lomiied  it  feelily  with  a  hand 

That  shook  like  palsy's  own. 
Uo<l  grant  the  touch   had  power  to 
make 
The  child  feel  less  alone! 

Whoknoweth  every  heart.  He  knows 
What  moved  the  boyish  mind; 

What  longings  grew  to  i)assion-throe8 
For  dear  ones  left  behind; 

How  hardly  youth  and  youth's  de- 
sires 
Their  hold  of  fife  resigned. 

Perhaps  the  little  fellow  felt 
As  lirave  lloralius  thought. 

When  for  those  dearer  Koman  lives 
He  held  his  own  as  nought. 

P'or  how  could  boy  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  lires 
To  save  poor  women's  husbands 

And  helpless  children's  sires  ';• 

Death  leaned  upon  hin>  heavily: 
Ihit  Liive.  more  miiihty  still. — 

JSln'  lent  him  slender  lease  of  life 
To  work  her  lender  will. 

He  fell  with  sighlhvss.  sentient  hand 
.\lonu'  >he  wall  and  ground, 

.\inl  there  the  rude  and  simple  jwige 
For  his  sweet  piirpos*-  found. 

O'erwrilten  with  the  names  be  lovetl. 

Clasped  to  bis  lilll.  .side. 
Him  t-yes  the  wooden  record  read 

Hours  after  he  had  dicil. 

'I'liiis  from  all  knowledi;eof  liiskind 
III  darUiiesH  lone  and  vast. 

From  life  to  death,  from  death  to  life 
The  little  hero  ]>assed. 

And,  while  ihi-y  llsliMied  for  the  feet 
That  would  return  no  more. 

I'ar  olT  tbey  fell  in  music  sweet 
I'lioii  another  shore. 


E  AGE  MAN. 


247 


Samuel  Miller  Hageman. 


ONLY. 

Only  a  little  child, 
Crushed  to  death  to-day  in  the  mart ; 
But  the  whole  uiihorizoned  kingdom 
of  heaven 

Was  in  that  little  heart. 

Only  a  grain  of  sand, 
Swirled  up  where  the  sea  lies  spent; 
But  it  holds  wlierever  it  be  in  space 

The  poise  of  a  continent. 

Only  a  minute  gone. 
That  to  tliink  of  now  is  vain ; 
Ah!    that  was  the  minute  without 
whose  link 

Had  dropped  Eternity's  chain. 


THE  TWO  GREAT  CITIES. 

Side  by  side  rise  tlie  two  great  cities, 

Afar  on  the  traveller's  sight; 
One,  black  with  the  (Uist  of  labor. 

One,  solemnly  still  and  white. 
Apart,  and  yet  together. 

They  are  reached  in  a  dying  breath. 
But  a  river  flows  between  them, 

And  the  river's  name  is  —  Death 

Ipart,  and  yet  together, 

Together,  and  yet  apart, 
.\s  the  cliild  may  die  at  midnight 

On  tlie  mother's  living  heart. 
So  close  come  the  two  great  citi^'S. 

With  only  the  river  between; 
A.nd  the  grass  in  the  one  Is  trampled, 

But  the  grass  in  the  other  is  green. 


The  hills  witli  uncovered  foreheads, 

Like  the  disciples  meet, 
While  ever  the  flowing  water 

Is  wasliing  their  hallowed  feet. 
And  out  on  the  glassy  ocean. 

The  sails  in  the  golden  gloom 
Seem  to  me  but  moving  shadows 

Of  the  white  emmarbled  tomb. 

Anon,  from  the  hut  and  the  palace 

Anon,  from  early  till  late, 
They  come,  rich  and  poor  together. 

Asking  alms  at  thy  beautiful  gate. 
And  never  had  life  a  guerdon 

So  welcome  to  all  to  give, 
In  the  land  where  the  living  are  dy- 
ing. 

As  the  land  where  the  dead  ma5 
live. 

O  silent  city  of  refuge 

On  the  way  to  the  city  o'erhead! 
The  gleam  of  thy  marble  mil*^stones 

Tells  the  distance  we  are  from  the 
dead. 
Full  of  feet,  but  a  city  untrodden, 

Full  of  hands,  but  a  city  unbuilt. 
Full  of  strangers  who  know  not  even 

That  their  life-cup  lies  there  spilt. 

They  know  not  the  tomb  from  the 
palace. 
They  dream  not  they  ever  have 
died: 
God  be  thanked  they  never  will  know 
it 
Till  they  live  on  the  other  side! 
From  the  Iloors  that  death  shut  coldlj 
On  the  face  of  their  last  lone  woe: 
They  came  to  thy  glades  for  shelter 
Who  had  nowhere  else  to  go. 


248 


EALLKCK. 


Fitz-Greene   Halleck. 


MARCO  BOZZAlilS. 

At  midniiilit  \\\  his  .£iu:inleil  tent, 
Till-     Turk   was   ciicaiuing   of  the 
hciur 
When  (Jreece,  hor  kiit'i-  in  snppllancc 
l)ont. 
Should  tn-niblt'  at  his  power; 
In  thvanis.  through  camp  and  court 

he  bore 
'Hie  tropliies  of  a  con<jaoror; 
In    dreams    his  sonj;  of  triumph 
heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring: 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne 

—  a  king; 
As  wild   his  thoughts,   and  gay  of 
wing. 
As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  luiihiight,  in  the  forest  sliades, 

l?o//.aris  rnntied  his  Suliote  band, 
Trut-as  tiiestei'iof  tJK'ir  tried  blades. 

Ilrroi's  in  iieart  and  lianii. 
Tlien;  iiad   the  l'«;rsi.iii  s  thousands 

stood. 
There  had  the  glad  earth  dnink  tlieir 
blood 
On  old  I'latiea's  day; 
And  now  there  breathed  that,  haunted 

air 
The    sons    of    sires   who  eon<|Uered 

there. 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare. 
As  <|uirk.  as  far  as  they. 

An     hour    passed     on  —  the     Tink 
awoke; 
'Hiat  liri^'ht  dream  was  his  last; 
II  •  woke  to  brar  bis  scnlri<'s  shrirk, 
"  To  anus!  tln-v  eouiel  the  'Irrek! 
the  (Jnt'k!" 
Il3  woke  —  to  die  midst   tlame  and 

smoke. 
And   shout,   and   groan,   and   sabre- 
stn»ke. 
And  death-shots  falling  tiiiek  and 
fast 
iui  ligbMiiii'.;s   from   'lie   mountain- 
riou  I : 


And   heard,   with  voice  as  tnnnp<4 
loud, 
Hozzaris  cheer  his  band. 

"Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  ex- 
pires; 

Strike  —  for    your    altars  and    your 
I  ires; 

Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your 
sires: 
(ioi»,  and  your  native  land!" 

They  fought. —  like  brave  men,  long 
ami  well ; 
Tliey  piled  iliat  ground  with   Mos- 
li'iii  slain; 
They  comiuered  —  but  Hozzaris  fell. 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  tew  surviving  eonuades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  i>roud  bur 
!  rail. 

Ami  the  reil  lield  was  won: 
Tlien  saw  in  death  bis  eyelids  close 
(  aindy,  iis  to  a  night's  reix)se, 
Like  llowei-s  at  s -t  of  sun. 

Come  to  th(>  bridal  ehamlier,  Death! 
Come  lo  the  mother's,   when  she 

feels. 
For   the   (irst   lime,    her   first-born's 

breath; 
<  ome  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  elose  the  peslileni'e  are  broke. 
And  erowded  eiiics  wai'  iisslioki'; 
Come     in     ( 'onsiunpt  ion's     uhastly 

fiirm. 
The   e.'irtb<|Uake    shock,    the    ocean 

storm: 
(.'oine  when  the  Iieart  beats  hiKh  huh 

warm. 
Wi'h     ban<|uet-snnii,    and    dance, 

and  wine; 
.\nd  thou  art  ten  iiile  —  the  tear. 
The  L^roau.  fill'   knell.    I  lie   |i,ill,   lh« 

bier. 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

Hut  to  the  hero,  when  bix  swonl 
Ila;  won  lli«'  bailie  )  <r  the  free, 


HALLECK. 


249 


rhy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's 

word ; 
ind  in  its  hollow  tones  arc  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Oome,   when  liis    task    of   fame    is 

wrought  — 
/Ome   with    her    laurel-leaf,    blood- 
bought  — 
Come  in  her  crowning  hour  —  and 
then 
Thy  simken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men ; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seekir"-  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of 

palm, 
A.nd  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 
Blew  o'er  the  Haytien  seas. 


Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave, 

(Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee  —  there  is  no  ])rouder  grave. 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
aw  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee. 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its 
plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leaf- 
less tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury'  of  the  tomb : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone. 
For  thee  her  poets'  lyre  is  wreathed. 
Her    marble    wrought,    her    music 

breathed : 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells: 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells: 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  ancl  cottagf  Ix'il; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe. 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years. 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her 
tears. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys. 
Though  in  her  eye  ami  faded  clieck 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  burit'd  joys. 


And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth. 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh: 
For   thou   art   Freedom's   now,   and 

Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


Bvnxs. 


Wild  rose  of  Alloway!  my  thanks; 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  that  autinmi 
noon 
When  first  we  met  r.pon  "  the  banks 

And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's 
bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief 
We've  crossed  the   winter  sea,   and 
thou 
Art  withered  —  flower  and  leaf. 

And    will  not    thy   death-doom    be 
mine  — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of 
clay  ? 
And   withered    my    life's    leaf    like 
thine. 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  ? 

Xot  so  his  memory  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long. 

His,    who  a    humbler    flower  could 
make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Burns  —  a  name 
That  calls,  when  Ijrimmed  her  fes- 
tal cup, 

A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame. 
In  silent  satlness  up. 

A  nation's  glorj'  —  be  the  rest 
Forgot — "she's  canonized  his  mind 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  humankind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 
Where  tlip  bard-peasant  first  dre\« 
breath; 


250 


HALLECR. 


A    straw-thatched    roof    above     his 
head, 
A  straw-WTOUght  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stooil  beside  the  pile, 
Hisiiniiunneiit — that  tells  to  heaven 

The  huniaj^e  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

Bid    thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that 
spot, 
Boy-minstrel,    In    thy    dreamiu!^' 
hour; 
And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  poet's  pride  and  power; 

The    pride  that    lifted   Burns  from 
earth, 
The    power  that  gave  a  cliild  of 
song 
Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birtli. 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  stron;:;; 

And  if  desi)ondency  weigh  down 
Tliy  spirit's  llutterini^  [)inions  then. 

Despair  —  thy  namr  is  written  on 
Tlie  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loft irr  tliemes  than 
his. 

And  longer  scrolls,  and  loiuler  lyres. 
And  lays  lit  up  with  I'oesy's 

Purer  and  holier  lires; 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not 
deatli ; 
Few   nobler  ones  than   Himis  an- 
there; 
And  few  have  won  a  i,'reenfr  wn-alh 
Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  Is  tliat  lani;iiau'<'  of  the  In-art 
In  which  the answi  rill);  iicarl  would 
spi'iik, 
Thouglil,  wiird,  that   bids  tin"  warm 
tear  .start. 
Or  the  Buiile  light  the  cheek; 

And  his  that  nui.sic  to  whose  tone 
The 'fniiinoii  ptils(«  of  man   keejis 
tim. , 

(a  cot  or  <  astlf's  mirth  or  nman. 
In  cold  or  aunny  elime. 


And  wlio  hath  heard  his  song,  not 
knelt 

IJcfort'  its  sj)ell  with  willing  knee, 
And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 

The  poet's  mastery 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,    in   calm  and 
storm. 
O'er  the  lieart's  sunshine  and  its 
showers. 
O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and 
warm, 
O'er  Keason's  dark,  cold  hours; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "die  or 

do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquefi, 

mirth. 
Where  mmnners  weep,  where  lovers 

woo, 

From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed. 
What    wild   vows    falter    on    the 
tonj^ue. 
When  "Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallach 
bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Laui;  Syne,"  is  sunj;'. 

Pure  hoiK'S,  that  lift  the  soul  above. 
Come  with  his  Colter's  liynui  ot 
l)raise, 
And  dreams  of  youth,  and  (nUb,  and 
love 
With  "Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  be  l)reathes  bis  ma<;fcr-lay 
Of  Alloway's  wilih-haMutrii  wall. 

All  passions  in  our  Iraiufs  of  day 
(Jomc  lliron;,'iut;  at  bis  call. 

Imagination's  woild  of  air. 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and 
glee, 
U  it,  paiiios,  poetry,  are  there. 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Bums,  though  brief  the  race  h« 
ran, 
Thou};b  rouuh  and   daik    ilie   palli 
be  trod  — 
Lived,  died,  in  form  ami  soul  a  man. 
The  iina^'e  of  his  (iod. 


EALLECK. 


251 


Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want, 
and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could 
heal, 
Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

A.nd  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth. 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions 
strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high. 
That  coiUd  not  fear  and  would  not 
bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard!  his  words  are 
driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds 
sown, 
Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven. 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes. 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good. 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral-day, 
Men  stand    his    cold  earth-couch 
around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is. 
The    last,  the  hallowed  home   of 
one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  bm'ied  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  con- 
fined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 


Sages,      with     Wisdom's      garland 
\sTeathed, 
Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests 
of  power, 
And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords 
sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hoiu". 

And  lowlier  names,   whose  humbk 
home 
Is  lit  by  fortune's  dimmer  star. 
Are  there  —  o'er  wave  and  mountain 
come. 
From  coimtries  near  and  far ; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have 
pressed  [sand, 

The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's 
Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  west. 

My  own  green  forest  land. 

iVll  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 
Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and 
sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  field  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees. 
And    pastoral    Nith,  and   wooded 
Ayr, 
And    round    thy   sepulchres,    Dum- 
fries ! 
The  Poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art. 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and 
urns  ? 
Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 

The  name  of  Robert  Bums '? 


OX  THE  DEA  Til  OF  JOSEPH  ROD 
MAN  DRAKE. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee. 
Friend  of  my  better  days  I 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep. 

And  long  where  thou  art  lying. 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 


^52 


HAUTE. 


Wlien  hearts,  whose  truth  was  prov- 
en. 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
Th«  re  slimild  a  wicatli  hv  \\o\en 

'lo  K'il  ihf  world  their  worth; 

And  I,  who  woke  eaeh  morrow 
To  ilasp  thy  Itand  in  mine, 

Who  sliure<I  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
\Vhose  weal  and  wo  were  thine; 


It  should  he  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  tliy  failed  brow, 
lUit  \'\i'  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  tV«'l  1  «'annot  now. 

While  juemory  bids  me  weep  thee. 
Nor  tlioiights  nor  words  are  free, 

The  i^rief  is  lixed  too  droply 
That  mom'ns  a  man  like  thee. 


Francis   Bret  Harte. 


TO  A  SEA-BIRD. 

SArxTr.uiNO  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vai,'al)ond  of  the  sea, 
I.iillfthonliccdi-stthesurf  tliat  sinus, 
The    bar   thai    thunders,   the  shale 
that  rin;4s, — 
Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old   friend,  that's 
new; 
Stonns  and  wrecks  are  old  things 
to  thee; 
Silk  am  1  of  these  chanf^es  too; 
i. it  lie  to  care  for.  little  to  rue, — 
I  o\i  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  ami  near, 

IJring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me; 

All  of  my  journeyings  end  them  here, 

Till''  our  tether  must  be  our  ebeer, — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  lliou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  roekin:^  on  o'-ean's  breast, 
.Something  in  eonunon.  old  fr'end, 
liavt    «e; 
i'hou  on  lite  xjiingleseekest  thy  neat, 

to  liie  uatefr*  lo.ik  tor  l«  -I, — 

i  on  the  siiore,  and  iliuii  on  the  sea.  I 


LONE  MOUNTAIN  CEMETERY. 

Tnis  is  that  hill  of  awe 
That  Persian  Sindbad  saw, — 

The  mount  magnetic; 
And  on  its  seawanl  faee, 
tjcallered  along  its  l)ase. 

The  wrecks  prophetic 

Here  rome  the  argosies 
blown  by  eaeli  idle  breeze, 

1  o  and  fri)  shiftinL'; 
Vet  to  the  bill  of  Kate" 
All  drawing,  soon  or  lute, — 

Day  by  day  drifting, — 

Drifting  forever  here 
IJarks  tliat  for  many  a  year 

I!ra\ed  wind  and  weather; 
Sliallops  but  ycslcnlay 
Laun<  lied  <>n  yon  shining  bay, 

Dn.wn  all  tngeiber. 

This  is  the  end  of  all : 
•Sun  Ibyself  by  the  wall, 

U  ])oorer  IlindbatI! 
Envy  not  Sindbad  -  lame: 
Here  come  alike  I  lie  same, 

llinill«id  ami  Sindbad 


HAT. 


25b 


John  Hay. 


THE  PRAiniE. 

The  skies  are  blue  above  my  head, 

The  prairie  green  below, 
^nd  flickering  o'er  the  tufted  grass 

The  shifting  shadows  go, 
Vague-sailing,  where    the    feathery 
clouds 

Fleck  white  the  tranquil  skies, 
iJlack  javelins  darting  where  aloft 

The  whirling  pheasant  flies. 

A  glimmering  plain  in  drowsy  trance 

The  dim  horizon  bounds,  .     • 

Where  all  the  air  is  resonant 

With  sleepy  sunnniM'  sounds. 
The  life  that  sings  amt>iig  the  flowers, 

The  lisping  of  the  bieeze, 
The  hot  cicala's  sultry  cry. 

The  mm'murous  dreamy  bees. 

The  butterfly,  —  a  flying  flower  — 

Wheels  swift  in  flashing  rings. 
And  flutters  roimd  his  (luiet  kin, 

With  brave  flame-mottli'd  wings. 
The  wild  pinks  burst  in  crimson  Are, 

The  phlox'  bright  clusters  shine, 
And  prairie-cups  are  swinging  free 

To  spill  their  airy  wine. 

And  lavishly  beneath  the  sim, 

In  liberal  splendor  rolled. 
The  fennel  fills  llie  ilipping  plain 

With  floods  of  flowery  gold: 
And  widely  weaves  the  iron-weed 

A  'woof  of  purple  dyes 
Where  Autunui's  royal  feet  may  tread 

When  bankrupt  Summer  flies. 

In  verdurous  tunuilt  far  away 

The  prairie-billows  gleam. 
Upon  their  crests  in  blessing  rests 

The  noontide's  gracious  beam. 
Low  ((uivering  vapors  steaming  dim, 

The  level  splendors  l)ri'ak 
Where  languid  lilies  deck  the  rim 

Of  some  land-circled  lake. 

Far  in  the  East  like  low-hung  clouds 
The  waving  woodlands  lie; 


Far  in  the  West  the  glowing  plain 
Melts  warmly  in  the  sky. 

No  accent  woimds  the  reverent  air 
No  footprint  dints  the  sod.  — 

Low  in  the  light  the  prairie  lies 
Rapt  in  a  dream  of  God. 


IN  A   GRAVEYARD. 

In  the  dewy  depths  of  the  graveyard 

I  lie  in  the  tangled  grass. 
And  watch  in  the  sea  of  azure. 

The  white  cloud-islands  pass. 

The  birds  in  the  rustling  branches 

Sing  gaily  overliead ; 
Gray  stones  like  sentinel  spectres 

Are  guarding  the  silent  dead. 

The  early  flowers  sleep  shaded 

In  the  cool  green  noonday  glooms : 

The  broken  light  falls  shuddering 
On  the  cold  white  face  of  the  tombs. 

Without,  the  world  is  smiling 
In  the  infinite  love  of  God, 

But  the  siuilight  fails  and  falters 
When  it  falls  on   the  churchyard 
sod. 

On  me  the  joyous  rapture 
Of  a  heart's  first  love  is  shed. 

But  it  falls  on  my  heart  as  coldly 
As  sunUght  on  the  dead. 


REMOnsr  _ 

Sad  is  the  thought  of  sunniest  days 

Of  love  and  rapture  perished. 
And  shine  through  memory's  tearful 
haze 

The  eyes  once  fondliest  cherished. 
Kciiroachful  is  the  ghost  of  toys 

Tliat     ('banned     while    life     was 
wasted. 
But  saddest  is  the  thought  of  joys 

That  never  yet  were  tastetl. 


254 


HAY. 


Sad  is  the  vayne  and  teiulor  diva  in 

Of  dead  love's  linneiini^  kisses, 
To    crushed    hearts    haloed    by   tlie 
yleain 
Of  iinreturning  blisses; 
Deep  inourns  the  soul  in  anguished 
pride 
For    the  pitiless  death    that   won 
them, — 
But  the  saddest  wail  is  for  lips  that 
died 
With  the  virgin  dew  upon  them. 


.N  TlIK  liLUFF. 

O  ORANDLY  flowing  Rlverl 

O  silver-gliding  Kiver! 

Thy  springing  willows  shiver 

In  the  sunset  as  of  old; 
Tht-y  shiver  in  tin-  siienee 
Of  tiie  willow-whitened  islands. 
While  the  sun-burs  and  the  sand-bars 

Fill  air  and  wave  with  gold. 

O  gay,  oblivious  Riverl 
O  sunset-kindled  Kiver! 
Do  you  remember  ever 

The  eyes  and  skies  so  blue 
On  a  summer  day  that  shone  here, 
^\■ll(•Il  we  were  all  alone  here. 
And  the  blue  eyes  were  loo  wise 

To  speak  the  love  they  kuew  ? 

O  stern  imitassive  Iviver! 
O  still  iinaiisweriii'^  Hiver! 
Til  ■  siiivering  willows  (|uiver 

.is  the  iiiglit-wiiids  iiinaii  a i it  1  rave. 
I'roin  the  past  a  voiee  is  calling, 
From  heaven  a  star  is  falling. 
Ami  dew  swells  in  the  bluebells 

Alx)ve  her  hillside  grave. 


A    M'OMAS'S   LOVE. 

A    sK.NTiM.i.  angel   sitting  high   in 

«l"r>- 
lieanl  this  shrill  wall  rim;  out  from 

ruruatoiy : 
"  lU\emerey,  mighty  angel,  bear  my 

htory  1 


"  I  loved,  — and.  blind  with  passion- 
ate love,  1  fell. 

Love  brought  me  down  to  death,  and 
death  to  Hell. 

For  God  is  just,  and  <leath  for  siu  is 
well. 

"  I  do  not  rage  against  his  high  de- 
cree, 

Nor  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall 
be: 

But  for  my  love  on  earth  who  mourns 
for  me. 

''Great  Spirit!  Let  nie  ^ee  my  love 

again 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I 

•    were  fain 
To  pay  a  thousand  years  of  fire  and 

pain." 

Then  said  the  pitying  angel,  "Nay, 
reiient 

That  Willi  vow!  Look,  the  dial  fin- 
ger's bent 

Down  t<)  the  last  hour  of  thy  punish- 
ment ! " 

Hut  still  she  wailed.  "  I  pray  thee,  let 

me  go! 
I  cannot  rise  to  pea<'e  and  leave  him 

so. 
O,  let   me  sootlie   him  in   his  bitter 

woe ! ' ' 

The  brazen  gates  tjround  siillenly  ajar. 
And   ujiwanl,  joyous,    like   a   rising 

star. 
She  rose   and   vanished  in    the  ether 

far. 

But  soon    adown    the  dying  sunset 

sailing, 
.\nd  like  a  woiimled  bird  hei  ]iiiiions 

trailing, 
She    fhitten-d    back,     with     inoken- 

hearled  wailing. 

.Sh(>   sobbed.    "•  1    loiiiid    bim    by    tho. 

Mimmei  se.l 
Keelined,  his  bead  upon  a   i.iaiden'.'i 

knee,  — 
She  curled  bis  hair  and  kissed   bini. 

Woe  i.H  me!  " 


EAYNE. 


255 


She  wept.     "  Now   let  my   punish- 

In life's  high  noon 

ment  begin  I 

Aimless  I  stand,   my  promised  task 

I  have  been  fond  and  foolish.     Let 

undone. 

me  in 

And  raise  my  hot  eyes  to  the  angry 

To  expiate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin." 

sun 

That  will  go  down  too  soon. 

The  angel  answered,  "  Nay,  sad  soul, 

go  higher! 

Turned  into  gall 

To  be  deceived  in  your  true  heart's 

Are    the  sweet  joys  of  childhood's 

desire 

sunny  reign ; 

Was  bitterer  than  a  thousand  years  of 

And  memoi7  is  a   torture,    love    a 

fire!" 

chain 

That  binds  my  life  in  thrall. 

LAO  RIM  AS. 

And  childhood's  pain 

God  send  me  tears! 

Could  to  me  now  the  purest  rapture 

Loose  the  fierce  band  that  binds  my 

yield ; 

tired  brain, 

I  pray  for  tears  as  in  his  parching 

Give  me  the  melting  heart  of  other 

field 

years, 

The  husbandman  for  rain. 

And  let  me  weep  again! 

We  pray  in  vain ! 

Before  me  pass 

The  sullen  sky  flings  down  its  blaze 

The  shapes  of  things  inexorably  true. 

of  brass; 

Gone  is  the  sparkle  of  transforming 

The    joys- of    life,  all  scorched  and 

dew 

withering  pass ; 

From  every  blade  of  grass. 

I  shall  not  weep  again. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


A  SUMMER  MOOD. 

Ah  me !  for  evermore,  for  evermore 
These  human  hearts  of  ours  must 
yearn  and  sigh, 
While  down  the  deils    and  up  the 
murmurous  shore 
Nature  renews  her  immortality. 

The  heavens  of  June  stretch  calm  and 
bland  above, 
Juno  roses  blush  with  tints  of  ori- 
ent skies. 
But  we,  by  graves  of  joy,  desire,  and 
love. 
Mourn  in  a  world  which  breathes 
of  Paradise! 

The  sunshine  mocks  the  tears  it  may 

not  dry, 
The  breezes  —  tricksy  couriers  of  the 

air, — 


Child-roisterers  winged,  and    lightly 
fluttering  by  — 
Blow  their  gay  trumpets  in  the  face 
of  care ; 

And    bolder  winds,   the  deep  sky's 
passionatf  speech. 
Woven  into   rhythmic  raptures  of 
desire, 
Or  fugues  of   mystic  victory,  sadly 
reach 
Our  humbled   souls,   to    rack,  not 
raise  them  higher! 

The  field-birds  seem  to  twit  us  as  they 
pass 
With  their  small  blisses,  piped  sc 
clear  and  loud ; 
The  cricket  triumphs  o'er  us  in  the 
grass. 
And  the  larli,  glancing  beauiliko  a]. 
the  cloud, 


250 


HA  YNE. 


Sings  us  to  scuiu  with  iiis  keen  rhap- 
sodies: 
.Small  things  and  greut  unconscious 
tauntings  bring 
To    edge    our    cares,    wiiile   \vc,  the 
l»roud  and  wise. 
Envy  the  insect's  joy,  the  birdling's 
wing! 

\nd  thus  for  evermore,  till  tini"  shall 
cease, 
Man's  soul  and   Nature's  —  each  a 
separate  spliere  — 
Itevolves,  the  one  in  discord,  one  in 
peace. 
And  '.vho  shall  make  the   solemn 
mystery  clear  ? 


BY  THE  AUVVMS  SEA. 

fwM  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day. 
Sad  as  the  ♦•veiling's  lender  gray. 
l!y  I  lie  latest  lustre  of  suiiM't  kissed, 
'liial  wavers  and  jvanes  Ihroiigli   an 

amber  nnst. — 
There  comelh  a  dream  of  the  piist  to 

me, 
On  the  desert    sands,  by  the  autuuiu 

sea. 

All  bi-aven   is  wnippccj  in  a  mvsti(! 

vil. 
Anil  thf  face  ol  the  ocean  is  dim  and 

palf. 
Anil  then-  rises  a  wind  from  the  chill 

nurlhwesi. 
That   siTUieth    tln^    wail  of  a  soid's 

tmrest. 
As  the  twilight  fjills,  and  the  vapors 

llee 
Far  over   the  wastes  of  Ihi-  autiniin 

sea. 

A  sinRle  jlMp  through   the  gloamiii'; 

glides 

rplM»me  on  the  swell  of  the  seaward 

tides: 
And  above  Iht!  gleam  of  her  topmost 

sjiar 
.\re  the  virgin  eyes  of  the  vesper  star 
Tliaf  shine  with  an  atigel's  ruth  on 

me,  — 
A  bu|K'lu8i>  wuif,  by  the  autumn  sea. 


The  wings  of  the  ghostly  beach-bini- 

gleam 
Through  the  shimmering  surf,   and 

the  curlews  scream 
Falls  faintly  shrill  from  the  darkening 

height ; 
The  first    weird  sigh  cu  the  lips  of 

Night 
Ureathes  low  through  the  sedge  and 

the  blasted  tree, 
With  a  miu-mur  of  doom,  by  the  an 

tumu  sea. 

Oh,  sky-enshadowed  and  yeamin?j 
main. 

Your  gloom  but  deepens  this  /unntd, 
pain; 

Those  waves  seem  big  with  a  name- 
less care. 

That  sky  is  a  type  of  the  heart's 
despair. 

As  I  linu'cr  and  nuise  by  the  sombre 
lea. 

And  the  night-shades  close  on  the 
autumn  sea. 


Ti/f:  \\<>i>l>l..isiK 

Von  woodland,  like  a  human  n\ind 
Has  many   a    phase  of  dark    an' 
light  ;■ 
Now  dim  with    shadows   wanderlm; 
idind. 
Now  radiant  with   fair  shapes    ot 
H.ght; 

They  softly  come,  they  sofily  gr), 
(ai>ricious  as  the  vagrant  wind,  — 

Nature's  vague  llunighis  in  gloom  o[ 
glow. 
That  leave  no  airiest  I.;-.ce  behind. 

No   trace,    no    tnne;    ye*    wherefore 
thus 
Do   sliadi^   and    lieani    our    spirits 
stir? 
Ah!  Nature  may  be  cold  lo  us, 

Hut  we  are  strangely  moved  by  her! 

The    wild   bird's   strain,    the    breezy 
spray. 
Each  hour  with  sure  earth-changca 
rife, 


HAYNE 


251 


[lint  more  than  all  the  sages  say, 
Or  poets  sing,  of  death  or  life! 

For,  truth  half  drawn  from  Nature's 
breast. 
Through  subtlest  types  of  form  and 
tone, 
Outweigii  what   man  at  most  hath 
guessed, 
While  heeding  his  own  heart  alone. 

Anc  midway  betwixt  heaven  and  us 

Stand-.  Xature,  in  her  fadeless  grace, 
Still  pointing  to  our  Father's  house. 
His  glory  on  her  mystic  face! 


WINDLESS   RAIN. 

The  rain,  the  desolate  rain! 

Ceaseless,  and  solemn,  and  chill! 
How  it  drips  on  Llic  misty  i)anc, 

How  it  drenches  the  darkened  sill! 
0  scene  of  sorrow  and  deai-th! 

I  would  that  the  wind  awaking 
To  a  fierce  and  gusty  birth 

Miglit  vary  this  duil  lefrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  desolate  rain: 

For    the   heart  of    heaven   seems 
breaking 
in  tears  o'ei-  the  fallen  eaith, 

And  again,  again,  again. 

We  list  to  the  sombre  strain, 
The  faint,  cold,  monotone  — 
Whose  soul  is  a  mystic  moan  — 
Of  the  rain,  the  mournful  rain, 
The  soft,  despairing  rain ! 

The  rain,  the  murmurous  rain ! 

Weary,  passionless,  slow. 
'T  is  tl'.e  rhythm  of  settled  sorrow, 

'T  is  the  sobbing  of  cureless  woe! 
And  all  the  tragic  life, 

Th('i>athos  of  Long-Ago, 

Comes  back  on  the  sad  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  dreary  rain, 
Till  the  graves  in  my  heart  unclose 

And  the  dead  who  are  buiicd  there 
From  a  solcnni  and  weird  rcjiosc 

Awake,  —  but  with  eyeballs  drear. 
And  voices  tliat  melt  in  i)ain 
On  the  tide  of  the  plaiiUivc  rain. 
The  yeariung.  hopeless  rain. 
The  long,  low,  whispering  rain  ? 


THE  SriNG   OF  DEATH. 

I  FKAK  thee  not,  O  Death!  nay,  oft 

I  pine 
To  clasp   thy  passionless  bosom   to 

mine  own,  — 
And  on  thy  heart  sob  out  my  latest 

moan. 
Ere  lapped  and  lost  in  thy  strange 

sleep  divine; 
But  much  I  fear  lest  that  chill  breath 

of  thine 
.Should   freeze    all  tender  memories 

into  stone.  — 
I.est  ruthless  and  malign  Oblivion 
Quench  the  last  spark  that  lingers  on 

love's  shrine:  — 
O  God!   to   moulder  through  dark, 

dateless  years,  — 
The  while  all  loving  ministries  shall 

cease. 
And  Time  assuage  the  fondest  mourn- 
er's tears!  — 
Here  lies  I  he  sting!  —  this,  thin  it  is 

to  die!  — 
And  yet  great  Nature  rounds  all  strife 

with  peace. 
And  life   or   dealli, — each    rests    in 

mystery ! 


JASMINE. 

Of  all  the  woodland  llowers  of  earlier 
si)ring. 

These  golden  jasmines,  each  an  air- 
hung  bower. 

Meet  for  the  Queen  of  Fairies'  tiring 
hour. 

Seem  loveliest  and  most  fair  in  bios 
soming;  — 

How  yonder  mock-bird  thrills  his 
fervid  wing 

And  long,  lithe  throat,  where  twink- 
ling flower  on  tlower 

Rains  the  gioiu'd  dewdrops  down,  a 
diamond  shower. 

O'er  his  brown  head,  poised  as  in  art 
to  sing;  — 

r,o!  the  swift  sunshine  floods  the 
flowi-ry  urns. 

(Jirding  their  delicate  gold  wiMi 
matchless  light, 


258 


BEBER  —  HEDDEIi  WICK. 


Till  the  blent  life  of  bough,  leaf,  Half-drunk  with  jyei-funio.  voilcd  by 
blossom,  burns;  nuliance  bri^ibt. — 

Then,  then  outbiu-sts  the  mock-bird  A  star  of  luusir  in  a  (ierj 
clear  and  loud,  1  cloud ! 


Reginald   Heber. 


IF  THOU    ICEUT  BY  .»/ >'  SI.')/:. 

Iv  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 
How  fast  would  evenini;  fail 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  gruve, 
Listening  the  nightingale  I 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

.My  babies  at  my  knee. 
How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  (junga's  mimic  seal 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 
When  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay, 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 
My  twilight  steps  I  guitfe,     . 

^ut  most    beneath  thf   lamp's  pale 
beam 
I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  si>read  my  IxM^ks.  my  pencil  try, 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 


But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye, 
Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

IJut  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  sUir 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee. 
1  feel,  tliougli  tiiou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  aseend  for  me. 

Then  on!  tiien  <ml  where  duty  leads. 
My  cotir-c  be  onward  still; 

O'er  broad  llindostans  sultry  meads, 
O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gJites, 

Nor  wild  .Malwah  detain: 
For  sweet  tlic  bliss  u>  botli  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers.  Bombay,  gleam  briudit, 
they  say, 

Acro.ss  the  (lark-blue  sea; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  I 


James  Hedderwick. 


MlliDI.K  1. 1  hi:. 

Faiu  timi-  of  cdm  resolve  —  of  sober 
thought! 

t^iiiet  half-way  hosU-lry  on  life's  long 
road, 

In  which  to  re.st  and  n'ailjust  our 
load ! 

Iligli  lalile-land.  I<»  whi<-h  we  Jiave 
be.  II  brought 

By  stuiiil'HiiL;  sleps  of  ill-directed  toil! 

Season  winn  not  to  achieve  is  tu  de- 
spair! 


Last  field  for  us  of  a  full  fruitful  .soil! 
Only  s]iriiig-tide  our  fieiglii«'d  aims 

to  bear 
Onwaiil  to  all  our  yearning  ilreams 

have  sought ! 

IIow  art  thou  eliau'^ed !    ( )iire  to  our 

yr>iithful  ey<'s 
'I'liin    silveiiii;;  lix'k.s  and    thought's 

imprinted  lines 
Oj.     shiping    aye     jav"     weird     and 

wintry  bitcns: 


HE  DOE. 


25« 


But  now  these  trophies  ours,  we  re- 
cognize 

Only  a  voice  faint-rippling  to  its 
shore, 

And  a  weak  tottering  step  as  marks 
of  old. 

None  are  so  far  but  some  are  on  be- 
fore; 

Thus  still  at  distance  is  the  goal  be- 
held, 

A.nd  to  improve  the  way  is  truly  wise. 

Farewell,  ye  blossomed  hedges!  and 
the  deep 


Thick  green  of  summer  on  the  mat- 
ted bough ! 

The  languid  autumn  mellows  round 
us  now : 

Yet  fancy  may  its  vernal  beauties 
keep. 

Like  holly  leaves  for  a  December 
wreath. 

To  take  this  gift  of  life  with  trusting 
hands. 

And  star  with  heavenly  hopes  the 
■     night  of  death. 

Is  all  that  poor  humanity  demands 

To  lull  its  meaner  fears  to  easy  sleep. 


Frederic  Henry  Hedge. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

Hath  this  world  without  me  wrought 
Other  substance  than  my  thought  ? 
Lives  it  by  my  sense  alone, 
Or  by  essence  of  its  own  ? 
Will  its  life,  with  mine  begun, 
Cease  to  be  when  that  is  done? 
Or  another  consciousness 
With  the  self-same  forms  impress  ? 

Doth  yon  fire-ball,  poised  in  air, 
}Iang  by  my  permission  there  ? 
Are  the  clouds  that  wander  by 
But  the  offspring  of  mine  eye, 
IJorn  with  every  glance  I  cast, 
Perishing  when  that  is  past  ? 
And  those  thousand,  thousand  eyes, 
Scattered  through  the  I  winkling  skies, 
Do  they  draw  their  life  from  mine. 
Or  of  liheir  own  beauty  shine  ? 

Now  I  close  my  eyes,  my  ears, 

And  creation  disappears; 

Yet  if  I  l)ut  speak  the  word, 

All  creation  is  restored. 

Or  —  more  \\ onderful  —  within. 

New  creations  do  begin; 

Hues   more   bright  and  forms  more 

rare 
Than  reaUty  doth  wear, 


Flash  across  my  inward  sense 
Born  of  the  mind's  omnipotence. 

Soul !  that  all  iiifomiest,  say  I 
Shall  these  glories  pass  away  ? 
Will  those  planets  cease  to  blaze 
When  these  eyes  no  longer  gaze  ? 
And  the  life  of  things  be  o'er 
When  these  pulses  beat  no  more  ? 

Thought !    that   in   me   works    and 

lives,  — 
Life  to  all  things  living  gives.  — 
Art  thou  not  thyself,  perchance. 
But  the  universe  in  trance  ? 
A  reflection  inly  Hung 
By  that  world  thou  fanc'edst  sprung 
From  thyself,  — thyself  a  dream, — 
Of  the   world's  thinking,   thou  mc 

theme  ? 

Be  it  thus,  or  be  thy  birth 

From  a  source  above  \\\o  earth,  — 

Be  thou  matter,  be  thou  mind, 

In  thee  alone  myself  I  find. 

And  through  thee,  alone,  for  me 

Hath  this  world  reality. 

Therefore,  in  thee  will  I  live, 

To  tlitM'  all  iiiyself  will  give. 

Losing  still  that  1  may  find 

This  bounded  self  in  boundless  mind 


i60 


UKMANS. 


Felicia   Dorothea   Hemans. 


BliEATHISdS    OF  sr  1:1X0. 

What  wak'st  thou.  Spring?    Sweet 
voico.s  in  the  woods, 
And    rrt'd-likf   I'lhofs,   that    havo 
loiii,'  liet-n  niulf; 
lliini   liiint,'csi   back,  to  fill  the  soli- 
tudes, 
Tlie  lark's  cloar  pipe,  the  cuckoo's 
viewless  Uute, 
Wlioso  tone  seems  Ijieathins  inouni- 
fiUness  or  t,'lee, 
Kven  as  our  hearts  may  he. 

And  tlie  leaves  greet  thee.  Spring!  — 
the  joyous  leaves. 
Whose  trendiliniis  gladden  many  a 
copse  and  ]L;iaile, 
Where  each  youug  spray  a  rosy  flush 
receives, 
When  thy  south  win<l  hath  pierced 
the  whispery  shade, 
And      hapjjy      murmurs,      ninninij 
throuj^h  the  j^hlss. 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And   the  l)rii,dit  waters, —  they,   too. 
hear  thy  call, 
•Spring,    the   awakener!   thou  hasi 
burst  their  sleep! 
Amidst  tlie  hollows  of  the  rorks  their  I 
tall 
Make-  melody,  and  in   tlie  forests 
m-ep. 
Where    Huddr-n    sparkles    anil    blue 
.Kl)'aiiis  botniy 
Their  windlnns  to  the  day. 

And      flowers, —  the      fairy-jx-opled 
MoiM  of  flowers  I 
Thou  from  the  diutt  ha.Ht  .set  that 
(,d.)ry  free, 
C'olorim;  the  ••owsli))  with  the  sunny 
iiours. 

And  peneillint;  the  w l-am-mone: 

Silent  (iiey  seem;  yi'teueli  lo ihuughl- 

ful  eye 

UioWs  with  mule  pucsy. 


l>ut  what  a  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart, 
()fc>l.nn«!  — 
The    human    heart,    with    all    its 
dreams  and  sigljs  ? 
Thou   that  givest   back   so  many  a 
buried   thing. 
Restorer  of  forgotten  hannonies! 
Fresh  songs  ami  seents  break  forth 
wluie'er  thou  art: 
What  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart? 

Too  nmoh,  oh,  there,  too  much!  — 
we  know  not  well 
Wherefoi>'  it  sh(»ul<l  be  thus;  yet, 
roused  by  thee. 
What  fond,  strange  yearnings,  from 
the  soul's  deep  cell, 
(insh  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may 
see ! 
How  are  we  haunted.  In  thy  wind's 
low  tone, 
Uy  voices  that  are  gone! 

Looks  of  familiar  love,   that  never 
more. 
Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes 
shall    meet, 
I'ast  wonls  of  welcome  to  our  house- 
holii  door. 
And  vauislied  sndles,  and  sotmds 
of   parted  feel. — 
Spring,   midst  the  nuuinurs  of   thy 
flowering  trees, 
Wiiy,  \\\\\  revives!  thou  these? 

\'aiu   lon^in^^s  for  the  deail!  —  why 
come  they  l)ack 
With  iliy  young  binls,  and  leaves, 
and  iivinu  blooms '? 
oil,  is  it  mil  that  from  thimt  e^irthly 
truck 
Ilojte  lo  thy  worhl  may  look  be- 
yond the  tombs? 
Ves.  gentle  .Spring;  no  sorrow  dims 
lliine  air, 
llrealbed     by    our     loved     ones 
there. 


UEMANS. 


261 


THE   INVOCATION. 

Answek  me,  burning  stars  of  night ! 

Wliere  is  the  spirit  gone, 
Tliat  past  tlie  reach  of  liuman  sight, 

Even  as  a  breeze,  liath  flown  ? 
And  the  stars  answered  me, —"We 
roll 

In  light  and  power  on  high, 
But,  of  the  never-dying  soul, 

Ask  things  that  cannot  die!" 

Oh !  many-toned  and  chainless  wind ! 

Thou  art  a  wanderer  free ; 
Tell  me  if  thou  its  place  canst  find. 

Far  over  moimt  and  sea  ? 
And  the  w'ind  nuu'nmrcd  in  reply, 

"The  blue  deep  I  have  crossed. 
And  met  its  barks  and  billows  high. 

But  not  what  thou  hast  lost! " 

Ye  clouds  that  gorgeously  repose 

Around  the  setting  sun, 
Answer!  have  ye  a  home  for  those 

Whose  earthly  race  is  run  ? 
The  bright  clouds  answered, —  "  We 
depart, 

We  vanish  from  the  sky; 
Ask  what  is  deathless  in  thy  heart 

For  that  which  cannot  die!" 

Speak,    then,    thou    voice    of    God 
within! 
Thou  of  the  deep  low  tone! 
Answer  me  througli  life's  restless  din. 

Where  is  the  spirit  llown  ? 
And  the  voice  answei'ed,  "Be  thou 
still ! 
Enough  to  know  is  given; 
Clouds,  winds,  and  stars  their  task 
fulfil ; 
Thine  is  to  trust  in  Heaven! " 


TIIK  noun   OF  DEATH. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
Anil  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- 
wind's  breatli. 
And  stars  to  set, —  but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own, 
oh!  Death. 


Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joy- 
ous hearth. 
Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the 
voice  of  prayer, — 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of 
the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour. 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song, 
and  wine; 
There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o"er- 
whelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears, —  but  all  are 
thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for 
decay. 
And  sniiie  at  thee, — but  thou  art 
not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize 
their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- 
wind's  breath. 
And  stars  to  set, —  but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own, 
oh!  Death. 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane. 
When  suinmer-birds  from  far  shall 
cross  the  sea, 
"Wlien  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the 
golden  grain, — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look 
for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the 
violets  lie  ? 
Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow 
pale  ? 
They  have  one  season. —  nil  are  ours 
to  die! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam. 
Thou  art  where  music  mcils  upon  (he 
ai  r ; 
Thou  art  around  u^  in  oiii-  peaceful 
honii". 
And  the  world  calls  us   forth,— an-; 
thou  art  there. 


262 


EEMAKS. 


Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  tlie  elm  to 
rest, — 
Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe.  and 
trumiK'ts  rend 
The  skies,  and  sw<jrds  Iteat  down  the 
princely  eresl. 

Leaves  liave  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- 
wind's  breath. 
And  stars  to  set, —  but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seiisons  for  thine  own, 
oh!  Death. 


EVEXfNO   PIlAYEIt  AT  A  GlflLS' 
S(  IIUOL. 

Hu.sn!  'tis  a  h(dy  hour, —  the  quiet 

room 
Seems   like   a   temple,    while    yon 

soft  lamp  sheds 
A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through 

the  gloom 
And   the  sweet  .stillness,  down  on 

brif^ht  young  lieads. 
With   all   their  <-lustering  loeks,   im- 

toiiclied  by  eare. 
And    bowed,    as    (lowers   are    bowed 

with  night, —  in  pniyer. 

Gaze  on, —  'tis  lovely  I — childbotxl's 

lip  and  elu'ck, 
.Maniiing  benialii  it.s  earne.sl  brow 

of  llioiight, 
(Jaze, —  yet  what  srcst  tlioM   in   tliosc 

fair,  and  meek, 
.\nd  fnigile  things,  as  but  for  sun- 

shiiK-  wrought  ';* 
Thou  .seest  what  grief  must  nurture 

for  tlir  sky, 
Whaldrath  must  fashion  for  eternity  I 


Lift  up  your  hearts  1  —  though  yet  no 

sorrow  lies 
Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those 

elear  eyes; 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  the 
untroubled  springs 
of  bopf  make  melody  where'er  ye 
tread; 

And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows, 
from  the  wings 
Of  spirits   visiting  but  youth,   be 
spread ; 

Yet  in  those  llute-like  voiees,  ming- 
ling low, 

Is  woman's   tenderness, —  how  soon 
her  woe. 

Her  lot  is  on   you, —  silent  tiai>.  lu 
weep. 
And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through 
sutTering's  hour. 

And  sundess  rit-hes,  from  affeetion's 
deep. 
To  i>our  on  l)roken  reeds, — a  wasted 
.showrri  |elay. 

And  to  maki-  idols,  and  to  lind  tlielu 

And  to  bi'wail  that  worship. —  there- 
fore pniyl 

Her  lot  is  on  you, —  to  be  found   uii- 

tired, 
Watehing  the  stars  out  l)y  tlie  bed 

of  pain. 
With  a  pale  elwek,  and  yet  a  lirow 

ins]>ired, 
.\iidatrue  heart  of  hoi)e,  tlu>ugb 

hope  be  vain.  [deeay, 

.Meekly  to  Itcar  with  wrong,  to  ihe.-r 
And  obi  (<»  love  llirough  all  thing>;,— 

therefore  jiniy I 


.\nd   take  th<'  thotighi  of  this  e.dm 
vesper  time. 
With    its   low    mininuring  .'ountis 
and  silvery  liiihl. 
Oh!  joyous  i-reatures.  that  will  sink    On  Ihroiigb  tin- ilarU  days  fading fron> 
to  n-st,  tlH'jr  priiiif. 

Lightly,   wiien  those  ]>ure  orisons  ]      As  a  swi-et  diw  to  keep  your  .souls 


an-  (lone, 


from  blight. 


Aj»  birds  with   slumh«'r's  honey-<lew    Fjirth    will    forsaki',— oh!    Iiapi)y   !<• 


opprcMSfil 


havr  given 


'MidMl  lb.'  dim  f«»lded  leave.s,  at  del    The  mibrokm  ln-arts  lirsl   Iragranee 


of  sun, — 


unto     l|r;iV<Ml! 


HERBERT. 


263 


LAXDING   OF    THE   PILGRIMS. 

TiiK  breaking  waves  dashed  high. 
On  a, stem  and  rock-hound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed ; 

And  the  heavy  niglit  hung  dark 

The  liills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their 
bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted  came ; 
Not   with   the   roll  of  the  stirring 
drums, 
And    the    trumpet    that  sings  of 
fame 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert 
gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 

And  tlie  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim 
woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free ! 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 
From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's 
foam; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest 
roared  — 
This  was  their  welcome  home! 


There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  baud: 

\Vhy  had  tliey  come  to  wither  there. 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 
Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely 
high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth    of  seas,   the  spoils  of 
war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 
The  soil  where  first  they  trod. 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there 
they  foimd  — 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 


CALM  OX  THE   liOSOM   OF  OUR 
GOD. 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  our  God, 
Fair  sjiirit!  rest  thee  now! 

E'en  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trod, 
I£is  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath! 

Soul  to  its  place  on  high! 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 


George   Herbert. 


THE   PULLEY. 


When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessing  standing 

bv: 
Let  us  (said  he)  pour  on  him  all  we 

can: 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersM 
lie. 
Contract  into  a  span. 


So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then   beauty   llow'd,   then   wisiiom, 

honor,  pleiisure: 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made 

a  stay. 
Perceiving    that    alone,    of    all    his 
treasure, 
Kest  in  the  bottom  lay. 


■164: 


HERBERT. 


For  if  I  slioiilil  (said  ht?) 

They  may  weep  out  the  stAins  bj 

Bestow  111  is  jewel  also  oil  my  fTo.i- 

them  did  rise: 

tmc. 

Those   doors  being  .shut,  all   by  th« 

Jl.'woulti  a.loiv  my  gifts  instead  of 

ear  conn's  in. 

iiif. 

Who   marks  in  church-time  other 

A.n»l  rest  in  .Valnrc,  not  the  (tO>I   of 

syimnetry. 

N'atnre; 

Makes    all    their    beaut  ■   his    de- 

iSo both  should  losers  be. 

formity. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

Let  vain  or  busy  thoughts  have  there 

But  keev>  them  with  n-pining  restless- 

no part: 

ness: 

liiing  not  thy  plough,  thy  plot.s,  thy 

Let  liim  ite  ri<'h  and  weary,  that  at 

pleasure  thither 

least. 

Christ  purged  the   temple;  .so   must 

ff  goodness  lead  liim  not,  yet  weari- 

thou thy  heart. 

ness 

All   worldly  thoughts  are  but   these 

May  loss  him  lo  my  breast. 

met  together 

To  cozen  thee.     Look    to  thy  ac- 
tions well: 

For  ehunhes  either  are  our  heaven 

j  From  till   1  liinxfi  I'orrh  \ 

or  bell. 

Ahl'ICK  OS   <  1111:1  II   ItlH.tyiOl!. 

.Judge  not  till'  preaeher:  for  he  is  thy 

\Viii:n    onee     Ih^     liK)t    enters    tlie 

judge: 

ehureli,  be  bare. 

If  thou  nnsiiki'  him.  thou  conceivest 

God  is  more  then:  than  thou:  for  thou 

hi.'ii  not. 

art  there 

Ciod  ealleth  preaching  folly.     Do  not 

Only  by  his  permission.      Then    be- 

grudge 

ware. 

To  pick  out  treasures  from  an  earihen 

And  maki!  thyself  all  reverenei;  ami 

Jiot. 

fear. 

The  wins!   s]ieak  sconething  good: 

if  all  want  sensi'. 

Kneeling  n<''er  spoii'd   silk  stock- 

(i(Kl    takes  U  le.\l    und  I'leaeli.-.  p;i 

ings:  (iiiiL  ihy  state. 

lience. 

All  e(|ual  are  within  the  ehinch's 
gate. 

Ktv^ort     to     seriliull>,     but      Kj     |pr:i\iT> 

most: 

I'raying's  the  end  of  prearhing.     <) 

\  J-'ii>m  till  t'hurch  I'orrh.  \ 

l>e  dresl; 

sru  1  /'  .!/•  SIC  11 1. 

Stay  not  for  the  other  jiin:  wliy  thmi 

iiast  lost 

Si.M    u]i   at    ni<.;bl,    what    thou   hast 

A  joy  for  it  worth  worlds,     'rinislirll 

dniie  by  day: 

doth  jest 

.Vnd  in  the  mnniing,  wba.  thou  hast 

Away  tliy  blessings,  and  extrejnely 

to  do. 

(lout  thee, 

l)re.H.s  and    undress   thy  8<ml:   mark 

Thy  <'lot lies  being  fast,  but  thy  soul 

the  decay 

loose  HlM>ut  thee. 

.\nd  growth  of  it:  if  with  Ihy  watch 

thai  too 

In  timi  of  service  seal  up  i»olb  Ihine 

lie  down,  then  wind  up  lioth.  sin<-e 

eyi'H, 

we  siiall  be 

Anil  send   tbeni  to  thine  heart:  thai 

Most   siinlv    iii'lgeil.  make  thy  ac- 

spviUL'  sill. 

counlH  agrue. 

EERRICK. 


265 


In  brief,  acquit  thee  bravely;  play  the 

man, 
L(}ok  not  on  pleasures  as  they  come, 

but  go. 
Defer  not  the  least  .virtue ;  life's  poor 

span 
Make  not  an  eii,  by  trifling  in  thy  wo. 
If  thou  do  ill,  the  joy  fades,  not  the 

pains : 
If  well;  the  pain  doth  fade,  the  joy 

femains. 


BOSOM  SIN. 

TiORD,  with  what  care  hast  thou  be- 
girt us  roimd ! 
Parents  first  season  us:  then  school- 
mas,  ters 
Deliver  us  to  laws:  they  send  us 
bound 
To  rales  of  reason,  holy  messengers, 

Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging 
sin, 
Afllictions  sorted,  anguish  of   all 

sizes. 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch 
us  in, 
Bibles  laid    open,    millions  of  sm-- 
prises. 

Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  grate- 
fulness. 
The  soimd  of  glory  ringing  in  our 
ears; 


Without,  our  shame;  within,  our 
consciences; 
Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and 
fears. 

Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole 

array 
One  cunning  bosom-siu  hlows  quite 

away. 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet    day,   so    cool,   so  calm,   so 

bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky; 
The  dew  shaii  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  nmst  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and 

brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  sxjring  fidl  of  sweet  days  and 

roses. 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie. 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to 
coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 


Robert  Herrick. 


TO  PERILLA. 

Ah,  my  Perllla !  dost  thou  grieve  to 

see 
Me,  dav  by  day,  to  steal  away  from  I 

thee  ? 
Age  calls  me  hence,   and  my  gray 

buirs  bid  como. 
And    haste    away    to   mine    eternal 

home; 


'T  will  not  be  long,  Perilla,  after  this 
That  I  must  give  thee  the  supremest 

kiss. 
Dead  wlum  I  am,  first  cast  in  salt, 

anil  bring  |s]iring. 

Part  of  the  cream  from  that  religious 
With  which,  Perilla,  wash  my  hands 

and  feet ; 
That  done,   then  wind  me   in   tliai 

veil'  sheet 


206 


UEliHlCK. 


Which  wrapt  tliy  smooth  hmbs  when 

thou  (liilst  imiiloif 
The  gods'  luotoLaion,  but  the  night 

before ; 
Follow  nil'  weeping  to  my  turf,  and 

there 
Let  fall  a  primrose,  and  with  it  a 

tear. 
Tlien  lastly,  let  some  weekly  strew- 

ings  be 
Devoted  to  the  memory  of  me  ; 
Then  shall  my  ghost  not  walk  about, 

bill  keep 
Still  in  the  coo]  and  silent  shades  of 

sleep. 


THE   rniMllOSR. 

Ask  me  why  I  srnd  you  here 
This  sweet  infanta  of  the  year  ? 
Ask  me  why  1  send  to  you 
This  primrose,  thus  bepearled  with 

dew  ? 
I  will  whisper  to  your  ears. 
The  sweets  of  love  are  mixed  with 

trars. 
Ask  me  wiiy  this  (lower  does  show 
So  yellow  green  and  sickly  too? 
Ask  nif  why  tin-  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  l^reak  ? 
I  will  answer,  these  discover 
What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 


Tin: HI-:  trviTAriis. 

rro.N  A  (iiii.i) 

Wv.nr.  she  lies,  a  jiretty  bud, 
Lately  made  of  llesh  and  blood; 
Who  sr)  soon  fell  fast  asleej) 
As  her  little  eyes  did  peep. 
(Jive  her  strewing-*,  but  not  stir, 
The  earth  that  ligiitly  covers  iier! 

t-fON    A   CIIILU. 

VlHOINS  promised  when  I  died, 
Tliat  they  woidd,  each  priiurose-lide, 
Duly  morn  and  evening  eome, 
Anil  with  (lowers  dress  my  toud): 
Having  proiidsed,  pay  your  debts, 
Maids,  and  here  Btruw  violets. 


UPON    A  MAID. 

IlEKRshe  lies,  in  beds  of  spice. 
Fair  as  Eve  in  i)ara(Iise; 
For  her  beauty  it  was  such. 
Poets  could  not  i)i-aise  too  much. 
N'irgins,  come,  and  in  a  ring 
Her  supremesl  n-quiem  sing; 
Then  depart,  but  see  ye  trejui 
Lightly,  lightly  o'er  the  dead. 


lion-   THE  HEAIiTS  EASE   FIJiST 
CAME. 

FnoLic  virgins  once  these  were, 
Over-loving,  living  here; 
IJeing  here  their  f\u\»  deni«'il, 
Kan  for  sweethearts  mad  antl  dieil. 
Love,  in  pity  of  their  tears. 
And  their  loss  of  blooming  yeaiN. 
For  their  restless  here-spent  hours. 
Gave    them    heart's-ease    turned   to 
(lowers. 


LITANY   TO   THE  HOLY  SI'llilT. 

L\  the  hour  of  my  distress 
When  temptations  me  oppress. 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

.Swi-el  Spirit,  comfort  mel 

When  1  lie  within  my  bid. 
.Silk  at  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 
.\nd  \\ith  doubts  discomforted, 
.Sweet  .Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  wee|i| 
.And  the  world  is  drovMied  in  sleep, 
Vet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
.Sweet  .Spirit,  comfort  mel 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fee«. 
Ami  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 
.Sweet  .Spirit,  <  oiniort  me. 

When  his  potion  and  his  |>ill, 
His  i.r  none  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing,  l)iit  to  kill  — 
bweel  Spirit,  comfort  m«I 


HER  VET. 


261 


When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  Furies,  in  a  shoal, 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few. 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  1  nod  to  what  he  said 
Because  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When,  God  knows,  I'm  tost  about 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

\Mien  the  Tempter  me  pursu'th. 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth. 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine 

eyes. 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 

Sweet^Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed. 
And  that  opened  whi(;li  was  sealed  — 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appealed. 
Sweet  Spu'it,  comfort  me. 


TO  KEEP  A    TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast  —  to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  '; 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  V 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour  — 
Or  ragged  go  — 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 

No!  'tis  a  fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat. 
And  meat. 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate, 
And  hate  — 
To  circumcise  thy  life, 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin. 
Not  bin  — 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent, 


Thomas   Kibble   Hervey. 


CLEOPATRA  EMBARKING   ON  THE 
CYDNUS. 

Flutes  in  the  sunny  air! 
And     harps     in      the      porphyry 
halls! 
And  a  low,  deep  hum  like  a  people's 
prayer. 
With  its  heart-breathed  swells  and 
falls! 
And  an  echo  like  the  desert's  call, 

Fhmg  back  to  the  shouting  shores! 
And  the  river's  ripple  heard  through 
all. 
As  it  plays  with  the  silver  oars!  — 


The  sky  is  a  gleam  of  gold, 
And  the  amber  breezes  float 

Like  thoughts  to  be  dreamed  of,  but 
never  told, 
Around  the  dancing  boat! 

She  has  stepped  on  the  burning  sand; 
And    the    thousand    tongues    are 
mute. 
And  the  Syrian  strikes  w  itb  a  trem- 
bling band 
The  strings  of  his  gilded  lute! 
And  the  Ethiop's  heart  throbs  loud 
and  high 
Beneath  his  white  symar, 


n/:y\\'(j(iiK 


Anil  the  Lil>yan  kneels,  as  he  meets 
Irt  cvf, 
Like  till'  ila^h  of  an  ea<ti'rn  star! 
The  fjales  may  not  he  heanl, 

Yel  llie  silken  streamers  quiver. 
\nd  Uie  vessel  shoots,  like  a  bright- 
])lunit'il  hinl, 
Awav      wn  the  golden  riverl 


Away  by  the  lufty  mount. 

And  away  by  ijie  lonely  shore. 
And  away  by  the  gushing  of  many  a 
fount, 

\\hei\'  lountains  gush  no  more!  — 
Oh,  for  some  warning  vision  there. 

Some  \oiee  that  sIiduIiI  have  spoken 
Of  climes  to  b»!  laid  waste  and  bare 

And  glad  young  spirits  broKenI 
Of  wat(Ms  dried  away. 

And  hope  and  i)eauty  blasted! 
That  si-eiii-s  M)  lairaiui  hearts  so  gay 

•Should  be  so  early  wa.^ted ! 


EPITAPH. 

Faukwki,!.!  sinee  nevermore  for  thep 
The  sun  eomesupourearibly  skies. 

Less  bright  heueeforlh  shall  sun- 
shine be  leyes. 
To  some  fond  hearts  and  saddened 

There  are  w  ho,  for  thy  last  long  sleep. 

Shall  sleep  as  sweetly  nevermore, 
Must  weep   because  thou  canst  not 

weep. 
And  grieve  that  all  thy  griefs  are  o'er. 

Sad  thrift  of  love! — the  lovingbreasi. 
Whereon   thine   aching   head  was 
thrown, 

tiave  up  the  weary  head,  to  i-est. 
Hut  kept  the  aching  for  its  own, 

Till  i)ain  shall  lind  the  same  low  bed 
That  jiiliows  now  thy  painless  head. 
And   following   darkly   through   the 
niu'lit,  '  Might. 

Love  reach  thee  by  the   founts  of 


Thomas  Heywood. 


GOOD-MORIIOW. 


Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day,  I  Wake    from     thy    nest,    robin    red- 


With  idi,'lit  we  banish  sorrow  , 
Sweet  air.  blow  soft;  moimt,  larks, 
aloft. 
To  givi'  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  fr  )m  the  wind  to  ] (lease  her 
mind. 
Notes  from  thr  lark  Lli  liormw; 
Bird, prime  thy  wini,MiiulitinL,'ale,sing, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 


breast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 
(•i\c  my  fair  love  goiMi-uiorrow. 
Blackbird     and     thrush     in     every 
bush, 
Stare,  linnet,  and  <-oik-si>arrow  ; 
Voii  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow 


HI  GO  IN  SON.  —  HILLARD. 


269 


Thomas  Wentworth   Higginson. 


DKCOUATION. 

'•  Manibits  (/att  lilia  pleiiis." 

'Mid   the   tiower-wreatlied  tombs  I 

stand, 
Bearinii  lilies  in  my  hand. 
Comrades!  in  what  soldier-grave 
Sleeps  I  he  bravest  of  the  brave  ? 
Is  it  he  who  sank  to  rest 
With  his  colors  round  his  breast? 
P'riendship  makes  his  tomb  a  shrine, 
Garlands  veil  it ;  ask  not  mine. 
One  lone  grave,  yon  trees  beneath, 
Bears  no  roses,  wears  no  wreath; 
Yet  no  heart  more  high  and  warm 
Ever  dared  the  battle-storm. 

Never  gleamed  a  prouder  eye 
In  the  front  of  victory : 


Never  foot  had  firmer  tread 
On  the  field  where  hope  lay  dead, 
Than  are  hid  within  this  tomb. 
Where  the  unti'ndcd  grasses  bloom ; 
And  no  stone,  with  feigned  distress. 
Mocks  the  sacred  loneliness. 


Youth  and  beauty,  dauntless  will, 
Dreams  that  life  could  ne  er  fulfil, 
Here  lie  buried  —  here  in  peace 
Wrongs  and   woes   have    found    re 
lease. 


Turning  from  my  comiades'  eyes, 
Kneeling  where  a  woman  lies, 
I  strew  lilies  on  the  grave 
Of  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 


George  Stillman  Hillard. 


LAKE  GEORGE. 

How  oft  in  visions  of  the  night. 
How  oft  in  noonday  dreaming, 
I've  seen,  fair  lake,  thy  forest  wave,— 
Have  seen  thy  waters  gleaming; 
Have  heard  the  blowing  of  the  winds 
That  sweep  along  thy  highlands. 
And  the  light  laughter  of  the  waves 
That  dance  around  thine  islands. 

It  WEus  a  landscape  of  the  mind, 

With  forms  and  hues  ideal, 

But  still  those  hues  and  forms  ap- 
peared 

More  lovely  than  aught  real. 

1  feared  to  see  the  breathing  scene, 

And  brooded  o'er  the  vision, 

Lest  the  hard  touch  of  truth  should 
mar 

A  picture  so  P^lysian. 

But  now  I  break  the  cold  distrust 
Whose  sjx'lls  so  long  had  bound  me; 
The  shadows  of  the  night  are  past. — 
The  morninj:  shines  around  me. 


And  in  the  sober  light  of  day, 
I  see,  with  eyes  enchanted. 
The  glorious  vision  that  so  long 
My  day  and  night  ilreams  haunted. 

I  see  the  green,  translucent  wave. 
The  purest  of  earth's  fountains: 
I  see  the  many-winding  shore,  — 
The  double  range  of  mountains: 
One,  neighbor  to  the  flying  clouds, 
And  crowned  with  leaf  and  blossom 
And  one,  more  lovely,  borne  within 
The  lake's  imrullleil  bosom. 

O  timid  heart!  with  thy  glad  throbs 
iSome  self-rejiroai'li  is  lilen<leil. 
At  the  long  years  that  died  before 
The  si^hl  of  sccni-  >o  si'lrndid. 
The  mind  has  pictures  of  its  own, 
Fair  trees  and  waters  flowing  — 
But  not  a  magic  whole  like  this. 
So  living,  breathing,  glowing; 

Strentjth  imaged  in  the  wooded  hi'ls, 
A  grand,  primeval  nittiie. 


2T(» 


HOFF.}fAy. 


And  bt'auty  luiiroiod  in  tin'  lake, 

A  gentler,  softer  feature; 

A  perfeet  unk>n,  —  wliere  no  want 

I'lHjn  the  soul  is  pressing; 

Like  manly  power  and  female  grace 

Made  one  by  bridal  blessing. 

Nor  is  the  stately  scene  without 
Its  sweet,  secluded  trejisiu-es, 
Where  hearts  that  shun  the  crowd 

may  find 
Their  own  exclusive  pleasures; 
Deep  chasms  of  shade  for  pensive 

thought. 
'I'he  hoiu-s  to  wear  away  in; 
And  vaulted  aisles. of  whispering  pine. 
For  lovers'  feet  to  stray  in ; 

Clear  streams  that  from  the  uplands 

run, 
A  course  of  sunless  shadow : 
Isles  all  unfurrowed  by  the  plough. 
And  strips  of  fertile  niead6w  ; 
And  roundiMJ  coves  of  silver  sand, 
Where  niDoiilight  plays  and  glances, — 
A  slieltered  hall  for  ellin  honis, 
A  floor  for  el  tin  dances. 

No  tame  monotony  is  here, 
But  beauty  ever  changing; 


Willi    elouils,   and   shadows   of    th« 

clouds. 
And  mists  the  hillsides  ranging. 
Where   mornings  gold,  anil  noons 

hot   sun. 
Their  changing  glories  rendei ; 
Pour   rouu(l    tlie    shores   a   varj'ing 

light. 
Now  glosving  and  now  tender. 

Hut  jtnrer  than  the  shifting  gleams 

Hy  liberal  sunsliine  given. 

Is  the  deep  spirit  of  that  hour,  — 

An  eflluence  breathed  from  heaven; 

Wlien  the  uneiouded,  yellow  moon 

Hangs  o'er  the  eastein  ridges. 

And    the    long    shaft    of    trembling 

gold. 
The  trembling  crystal  bridges. 

Farewell,  sweet  lake!  brief  were  the 

hours 
Along  thy  banks  for  straying: 
IJut     not      farewell     what     memory 

takes,  — 
An  image  undecaying. 
I  hold  secure  beyond  all  change 
One  lovely  recolleclion, 
'I'o  cheer  the  hours  of  lonely  toil. 
And  chase  away  dejection. 


Charles   Fenno   Hoffman. 


MONTE  HE  Y. 

Wk  were  not  many,  — we  who  stood 

Hefore  the  iron  sleet  that  day; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  s|>lrit  would 
(Jive  half  his  years  if  but  be  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Mont«!rey. 

.Now   here,    now    there,    the   shot    It 
haile.t 
In  deadly  drifts  of  (icry  sjiray. 
Vi-t  not  a  single  soldier  <|uaile(l 
When  wounded  conirailes  round  them 
wailed 
Their  dying  nhoult  at  Munt«reT. 


And  on,  still  on  our  cohnnn  kept. 
Through  walls  of  (lame,  its  withiv- 
ing  way; 
Where     fell     the    dead,    the     living 

stept. 
Still    charging    on  the  guns   which 
swe]>t 
The  slippery  streeta  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  agluutt, 
When,  striking  where  he  strongest 

lay. 
We   swooped  bis    Hanking    batteries 

past, 


HOGG  — HOLLAND. 


271 


Anil,   braving  full  their  murderous 
blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Mon- 
terey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  om*  evening  bugles  play ; 
Where  orange  boughs    above    their 
grave 


Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  —  we  who  pressed 

Beside   the    brave   who   fell    that 

day: 

But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 

He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 

Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 


James  Hogg. 


THE  SKYLARK. 


BiBD  of  the  wilderness 
Blithesome  and  cumberless. 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland 
and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness. 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 

Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  I 
Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 
Far  in  the  downy  cloud. 

Love  gives  itenergy,love  gave  it  birth, 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 
Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on 
earth. 


O'er  fell  and  fotmtain  sheen, 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  iliat  heralds  the 
day. 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 
Over  the  rainbow's  rim. 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away! 
Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 
Low  in  the  luiather  blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of 
love  be ! 
Emblem  of  hapiiiness. 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 
'  Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  I 


JosiAH   Gilbert  Holland. 


[From  liitfer-Sweet.] 

A   SONG  OF  DOUBT. 

Tur.  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is 
fled; 
God  has  forgotten  the  world ! 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  the  stars  are 
dead ; 
God  has  forgotten  the  world  I 

Evil  has  won  in  the  horrid  feud 
Of  ages  with  Tlie  Thron(>; 

Kvl]  stands  on  the  neck  of  (Jood, 
And  rules  the  world  alone. 


There  is  no  good ;  there  is  no  God ; 

And  Faith  is  a  heartless  cheat 
Who  bares  the  back  for  the  1  )('vir  s  rod.. 

And  scatters  thorns  for  tiie  feet. 

What  are  prayers  in  the  lips  of  death 

Filling  and  chilling  with  hail  ? 
What  are  prayers  but  wasted  brt>all' 

Beaten  back  by  the  gale  '.' 

[Hed: 
The  (lay  is  ciuenched.  and  the  siui  is 

(Jod  has  forgotten  the  world! 
The  moon  is  i;one,  and  tiie  stars  are 
.lead: 

God  has  foriiotten  tlie  world! 


ti72 


HOLLAND. 


[From  mtter-StPeef.'\ 
A  soya  OF  FAITH. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  hoon; 

God  will  ri'iiu'iuber  the  world  I 
Nisht  will  cdiiic  with  :i  lu-wer  moon; 

God  will  reuieuiber  the  world! 

E^•il  is  only  the  slave  of  Good; 

Sorrow  the  servant  of  Joy; 
And  the  soul  is  mud  that  refuses  food 

Of  the  meanest  in  God's  employ. 

The  fountain  of  joy  is  fed  by  tears, 
And   love  is  lit  by  the  breath  of 
sighs; 
The  df.'pest  griefs  and  the  wildest 
fears 
llave  holiest  ministries. 

Strong  glows  the  oak  in  the  sweeping 
storm; 
.Safely  the  llower  sleeps  under  the 
snow ; 
And   the   farmer's  hearth  is  never 
warm 
Till  the  cold  wind  starts  to  blow. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon; 

(";od  will  renicmbi-r  the  world! 
Night  will  citiue  with  a  newer  luoou; 

God  will  remember  the  world! 


[Frinn  /tithr-Sirvet.] 

WHAT  IS    THE    LITTLK    OXE 
rill.\KI.\(}   AHOUT* 

What    Is    the    little    one    thinking 

alM)nt '.' 
Very  wnnd.-rful  things,  no  dr)ubt. 
Fiiwritien  history! 
riifalhrmi.Ml  myxlrry! 
Yet  lie  laiiu'lis  and  cries,  and  <'alH  and 

drinks. 
And  rhuiklis  and  crows,  ami  nod.s 

and  winks. 
Ah  if  bis  iH-ad  wt-n-  a>*  full  of  kinks 
And  curions  riddlfs  as  aiiv  sphinx! 

WariM'd  by  colif.  and  wet  by  t.ars. 
I*unftur4ii   hv  i>ins.  and  tortun-d  by 

f<:irs. 
Uur  little  ni'phnw  will  lose  two  years; 


And  he'll  never  know 
\Vhi'rt'  the  siunmers  go; — 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he^ll  tind  it  so! 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Wiio  can  follow  the  gussjinier  link.s 

Hv  which  the  manikin  Iccls  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  thr- grea-   un- 
known. 
IJlind,  and  wailing,  and  all  alone. 

Into  the  light  of  day  •.'  — 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown 

sea. 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony,— 
of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and 

roils. 
Specked    with    the    barks    of    little 

souls,  — 
Harks   that   wei-e   launched    on    the 

other  side. 
And  slipi'cd  from  heaven  on  an  ebli- 

iiii,'  tide! 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's 
eves  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  moth- 
er's iiair  i' 
What  of  tlie  cradlt -roof  that  tlies 
Forward    and    iiackward    liirongh 

the  air? 
What  does  lie  think  of  his  moth- 
er's breast.  — 
Hare  ami  beaut  itnl.  smooth  and  white. 
Seeking  it  ever  willi  fresh  .Irli-hl,— 
Cup  of  his  lifeand  couch  ot  liis  rest'.' 
What  doeshetliink  when  h«'r  .piick 

enilirace 
Presses  his  haiul  and  buries  his  face 
I)eep    wliere    the    liearl-liirobs    sinl- 

ami  swell 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  ne\ertell, 
Tboiinii  slie  mnrnnir  the  wf»rds 
Of  all  the  birds.— 
Words  >he  has  learned   to   mnrnni 
well  ? 
Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleej)! 
I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 
Over  his  eyes  in  .soti  cclijise. 
Over  his  brow,  and  over  his  lijis 
Out  lo  his  little  tinyer-tips; 
Sofllv  siiikinu.  down  he  got's! 
Dowii  be  giM's!     Down  be  u'oo-s! 
bee!     lie  is  hu-ihed  in  bwcet  re 
potte! 


HOLLAND. 


273 


{From  Bitter-Sweei.] 

STRENGTH  THROUGH  RESISTED 
TEMPTATION. 

Gob  loves  not  sin,  nor  I;  but  in  the 

throng 
Of  evils  that  assail  us,  there  are  none 
That  yieM  their  strength  to  Virtue's 

struggling  arm 
With    such    munificent    reward    of 

power 
As  great  temptations.     We  may  win 

by  toil 
Endurance ;  saintly  fortitude  by  pain ; 
By  sickness,  patience;  faith  and  trust 

by  fear; 
But  the  great  stimulus  that  spurs  to 

life, 
And  crowds  to  generous  development 
Each  chastened  power  and  passion  of 

the  soul, 
Is  the  temptation  of  the  soul  to  sin. 
Resisted,  and  reconcjuered,  evermore. 


[From  Bitter-Siceet.] 
THE  PRESS   OF  SORROW. 

Hearts,  like  apples,  are  hard  and 

sour, 
rill    crushed    by    Pain's    resistless 

power ; 
And  yield  their  juices  rich  and  bland 
To  none  but  Sorrow's  heavy  hand. 
Tile  i>urest  streams  of  liunuin  love 

Fliiw  naturally  ncvcsi-. 
But  gush  by  pressiue  from  above. 

With  God's  hand  on  the  lever. 
T'he  (irst  are  turbidest  and  meanest; 
The  last  are  sweetest  and  serenest. 


[From  Bitter-Sweet.] 

LIFE   FROM  DEATH. 

LiFK  evennore  is  fed  hy  death. 

In  earth  and  sea  and  sky; 
And,    that  ,a   rose   may   breathe   its 
breath, 

Somethiiii'  must  die. 


Eartli  is  a  sepulchre  of  (lowers, 

Whose  vitalizing  mould 
Through    boundless     transmutation 
towers. 

In  green  and  gold. 

The   oak-tree,    struggling   with   the 
blast. 
Devours  its  father-tree. 
And  sheds  its  leaves  and  drops  its 
mast. 

That  more  may  be. 

The  falcon  preys  upon  the  finch. 

The  Hnch  upon  the  fly. 
And  nought  will  loose  the  hunger- 
pinch 

But  death's  wild  ciy. 

The  milk-haired  heifer's  life  must 
pass 
That  it  Tuay  fill  your  own. 
As    passed    the    sweet    life    of    the 
grass 

She  fed  upon. 

The  power  enslaved  by  yonder  cask 

Shall  many  l)urdens  bear; 
Shall  nerve  ilie  toiler  at  his  task, 
The  soul  at  prayer. 

From  lowly  woe  springs  lordly  joy; 

From  humbler  good  diviner; 
The  greater  lifr  must  aye  destroy 
And  drink  the  nunor. 


From    hand    to    hand    life's 
passed 

Up  Being's  jiiled  grailation. 
Till  men  to  angels  yitdd  at  last 
The  rich  collation. 


cup    IS 


'[From  mt/ir-Sireet.] 
WORTH  AM)   COST. 

Turs  is  it  over  all  the  earth  ! 

That  wliich  we  call  tlie  fairest. 
And  i)ri/.c  for  it-<  surpassin,'  \»orth. 
Is  ahvavs  rart>si. 


274 


HOLLAND. 


Iron  is  heapoil  in  mountain  piles, 

And  faints  tlie  iai,'L,';irii  foruos: 
IJut  jjold-riakos  •jlcani  in  dim  defiles 
And  lonely  gorges. 

The  snowy  marlile  flecks  the  land 

With  lit-aped  and  rounded  ledges, 
But  diamonds  hide  within  the  sand 
Their  starry  edges. 

The  finny  armies  clog  the  twine 

That  sweeps  the  lazy  river. 
But  pearls  come  singly  from  the  hrine, 
With  the  pale  diver. 

God  gives  no  value  unto  men 

Unmatched  hy  meed  of  lahor; 
And  Cost,  of  Worth,  has  ever  heen 
The  closest  neighbor. 

Wide  is  tlic  gate  and  broad  the  way 

That  opens  to  perdition. 
And  countless  multitudes  are  they 
Who  seek  admission. 

Ihit  strait  the  gate,  the  path  unkind. 

That  leads  to  life  immortal. 
And  few  the  careful  feet  tiiat  find. 
The  hidden  portal. 

All  common  gi»od  has  common  price; 

K\ceediU'4  ;;oih1,  exceeding; 

Christ  bought  the  keys  of  I'anidise ' 
IJy  cruel  bleeding; 

And  every  soul  that  wins  a  place 

Upon  its  hills  of  ])leasure. 
Mast  give  its  all,  and  beg  for  i,'race 
To  fill  the  measure. 


[Frwn  liitl,r-Su;i-t.] 

ciiAiiLK  soya. 

rilTllF.lt,  Slee]»I  a  mother  wauls  thee! 

Come  with  velvet  arms! 
F«)M  till'  baby  that  she  grarfts  thee 

'I'o  thy  own  soft  charms! 

Bear  liini  into  Dreandand  liu'htly! 

Give  him  siiilil  of   fiowersi 
Do  not  brine  liini  b.ick  till  brightly 

Break  the  morning  houm! 


Close  his  eyes  with  gentle  fingers! 

Cross  his  hands  of  snow! 
Tell  the  angels  where  he  lingers 

They  nnist  whisper  low! 

I  will  guard  thy  spell  unbroken 

If  thou  hear  my  call; 
Come,  then.  Sleep  I  I  wait  the  tokei 

Uf  thy  downy  thrall. 

Now  I  see  liis  sweet  lips  moving; 

He  is  in  thy  keep; 
Other  milk  the  babe  is  proving 

At  the  breast  of  Sleep ! 


[From  Bitter-sweet.] 
TO  AS   ISFA\T  SLEEPIS'O. 

Si.KK.i'.  babe,  the  honeyed  sleep  of 

innocence! 
.Sleep  like  a  bud;  for  soon  the  sun  o. 

life 
With   ardors  <|uick   and   passionat<- 

shall   rise. 
And  with   hot   kisses,  part  the  fra 

urani   li])s  — 
The  folded  j.eials  of  thy  .soul!     .Max. 
What  feverish  wiiuls  shall  tejise  and 

toss  thee,  then! 
What  pride  and  jiain,  ambition  ami 

despair. 
Desire,  satiety,  and  all  that  fill 
With  misery,  life's  fretful  enlcri)rise. 
Shall   wrench    and    blam-h    thee,  till 

thou  fall  at  last, 
.loy  after  joy  down-lluttcring  to  the 

earth. 
To  be  a|i)>ortion(M!  to  the  elements! 
I  marvel,  baby,  whether  it  were  ill 
That    be    who    planted    thee    should 

I>luck  tliee  now, 
And  save  thee  from  (be  blight  that 

Climes  on  all. 
I  marvel  wbetber  it  would  not  be  we.ll 
That    the   frail   bud   sboid<l  burst   in 

I'araclise, 
On  the  tiill  throbbing  of  an  angel's 

heart! 


HOLLAND. 


275 


[From  the  Marble  I'rophecy.] 

rilK    TYPE    OF   SriiUOGLING 
HUMANITY. 

Laocoon!  thoii  great  embodiment 

Of  human  life  and  human  liistory! 

TIiou  record  of  the  past,  thou  proph- 
ecy 

Of  the  sad  future,  thou  majestic  voice, 

PeaUng  along  the  ages  from  old  time ! 

Thou  wail  of  agoiuzed  humanity ! 

There  lives  no  thought  in  marble  like 
to  thee ! 

Thou  hast  no  kindred  in  the  Vatican, 

liut  standest  separate  among  the 
dreams 

Of  old  mythologies  —  alone  —  alone! 

The  beautiful  Apollo  at  thy  side 

Is  but  a  marble  dream,  and  dreams 
are  all 

The  gods  and  goddesses  and  fauns 
and  fates 

That  populate  these  wondrous  halls ; 
but  thou. 

Standing  among  them,  liftest  up  thy- 
self 

In  majesty  of  meaning,  till  they  sink 

Far  from  the  sight,  no  more  signifi- 
cant 

Than  the  poor  toys  of  children.  For 
thou  art 

A  voice  from  out  the  world's  experi- 
ence, 

Speaking  of  all  the  generations  i)ast 

To  all  the  generations  yet  to  come 

Of  the  long  struggle,  the  sublime  de- 
spair. 

The  wild  and  weary  agony  of  man ! 


ON  THE  ItlGHI. 

On  the  Righi  Kulm  we  stood, 

I^ovely  Florilx'l  and  I, 
While  tile  morning's  crimson  flood 

Streamed  along  llie  eastern  sky. 
Reddened  every  niountain-peak 

Into  rose  from  twilight  dun ; 


But  the  blush  upon  her  cheek 
Was  not  lighted  by  tlie  sun ! 

( )n  the  Righi  Kulm  we  sat, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
Plucking  l)luebells  for  her  hat 

From    a    momid    that    blossomed 
nigh. 
"  We  are  near  to  heaven,"  she  sighed, 

While  her  raven  lashes  fell. 
"Nearer,"  softly  I  rei)lied, 

"  Than  the  mountain's  height  may 
tell." 

IJown  the  IJighi's  side  we  sped, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
Hut  her  morning  blush  had  fled 

And  the  l)Iuebells  all  were  dry. 
Of  the  height  the  dream  was  born; 

Of  the  lower  air  it  died ; 
And  the  i)assion  of  the  morn 

Flagged  and  fell  at  eventide. 

From  the  breast  of  blue  Lucerne, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I 
Saw  the  brand  of  sunset  burn 

On  the  IJighi  Kulm.  and  die. 
And  we  wondered,  gazing  thus. 

If  oiu-  dream  would  still  remain 
On  the  height,  and  wait  for  us 

Till  1  e  elimb  to  lieaven  again! 


WHAT   WILL  IT  MATTER? 

Ik  life  awake  and  will  never  cease 
On  the  future's  distant  shore. 

And  the  rose  of  love  and  tiie  lily  of 
jK'aee 
Shall  bloom  there  forevermore, — 

Let  tlie  world  go  round  ;ind  round, 
.\nil  the  sun  sink  into  the  sea: 

For   whether    I'm   on    or   under  tin- 
ground. 
Oh,  what  will  it  mailer  to  me  :^ 


276 


UOLMi:  -  IIULMES. 


Saxe   Holme. 


THREE   KISSES   OF  FAllEHfl.L. 

TiiHKK,  only  throe,  my  darlini,', 

.Separate,  ^^ol'-iim.  slow; 
Not  like  the  sw  ill  and  joyous  oni'S, 

We  used  to  know 
When  we  kissed   because  we  loved 
each  other 

SiuM'ly  to  taste  love's  sweet, 
AjuI  lavished  our  kisses  as  the  siuu- 
iner 

Lavishes  heat;  — 
But  as  they  kiss  whose  hearts  are 
wrung, 

When  hope  and  fear  are  spent, 
Anil  nothing'  is  left  to  give  exeept 

A  .sacranienl! 

First  of  the  three,  my  darling, 

Is  sacred  unto  pain  ; 
We  have  Innt  each  other  often: 

We  shall  again. 
When  we  pine  because  we  miss  each 
other, 

And  do  not  understand. 
How  the  written  words  are  so  nnich 
colder 

Than  eye  and  hand. 
I  kiss  thee,  dear,  for  all  such  )»ain 

Which  we  may  give  or  take; 


iJuiied.  forgiven,  before  it  comes, 
For  our  love's  sake! 

The  second  kiss,  my  darling. 

Is  full  of  joy's  sweet  thrill; 
We  havt>  blessed  each  other  always; 

We  always  will. 
We  shall  reach  till  we  feel  each  other, 

Fast  all  of  time  and  .space; 
We   shall    listen   till  we   hear  each 
other 

In  every  place; 
The  earth  is  full  of  messengers 

AVhi<  ii  love  semis  to  and  fro; 
1  kiss  tliee,  darling,  for  all  joy 

Which  We  shall  knowl 

The  last  kiss.  oh.  my  darling. 

My  love —  1  cannot  see 
Through  my  tears,  as  1  remember 

What  It  liiay  be. 
We  iiia>  liioand  never  see  each  otliei , 

Die  with  no  time  to  give 
Any  sign  that  our  hearts  an-  faithful 

To  ilie,  as  live. 
Token  of  what  they  Nvill  not  see 

\\\nt  see  our  parting  breath. 
This  one  last  kiss,  my  darling,  seals 

The  seal  of  death ! 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


TifE  v<n<i:i.i:ss. 

Wk  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where   the  sweet  wailing  singers 
slumlM'r. 
Hut  o'er  llu'ir  silent  sister's  breast 
'i'he  wild-llowers  who  will  stoop  to 
iiund)er  ".' 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string. 
And    noisy    fame  is  ])roud   to  win 
them:  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing. 
Hut  die   with   all    their  music   in 
them ! 


\ay.  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 
Whose  song  has  told  their  heart.s' 
sail  sloiy.  — 
Wee])    for    the    voiceK'Ss,    who    have 
known 
The   eross   without    the   crown    of 
glory! 
Not  where  I.eiieadian  breezes  sweej) 
O'er    .Sjippho's     lnemor^■-hannted 
billou. 
Hut  where  the  gll.-lening  night-<Iews 
weep 
On  naMie|e-.s  Sornnv's  churchyanl 
pillow. 


HOLMEa. 


%7: 


0  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save    whitening    lip    and    fading 
tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

yiOWHlroi)p»'(l  fioni  Misery's  crush- 
ing presses,  — 
If  singing  bnvath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

Assad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven! 


DOROTHY  Q. 
A  FAillLY  POETKAIT. 

Granumotiieb's  mother:  her  age  I 

guess, 

Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less; 

Girlish  bust,  but  v.omanly  air: 

Smooth,   square    forehead   with  up- 
rolled  hair. 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 

Taper  lingers  and  slender  wrist; 

Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade; 

So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 
Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 
Look!  there's  a  rent  the  light  shines 

through, 
Dark    with     a    centuiy's    fiinge    of 

dust,  — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell, — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has    long  been 

pressed : 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn, — 

Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  Ijorn! 

Ay!    since    the  galloping    Normans 

came, 
England's  annals  have    known  her 

name; 


And  still    to  the  three-hilled  rebeJ 

town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray  haired 

son. 

0  Damsel  Dorothy !  Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  yoUj 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 

Save    to     daughter    or    son    might 

bring, 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and 

life! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered 

No. 
When  forth  the  tremulous  question 

came 
That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman 

name, 
And  imder  the  folds  that  look  so  still 
The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's 

thrill  ? 
Should  I  be  1,  or  would  it  be 
One  tenth  another  to  nine-tenths  me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes: 
Not  the  light  gossamerstirs  with  less; 
Ijut  never  a  cabii!  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and 

blast. 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  s(jng 
That  lives  in  the  l)abbling  air  so  louu'! 
There  were  tonet--  in   tlu^  voice  tliat 

whispered  then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  humhcd 

men. 

O  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  lure  we 

are. 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  andlione.— ■ 
Edward's  and   Dorothy's —all  theii 

own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  time  to  sliow 
Of  a  syllable  sjioken  so  long  ago:-- 
'  Shall  i  bless  you.  Dorothy,  or  forgive 

1  For  the  tender  whisper  lliat  baile  mo 
1  live  ? 


278 


EOLMEa. 


It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid! 
I  will  Ileal  the  stab  of  the  Kod-L'oat's 

blade, 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished 

frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  house- 
hold name: 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and 

bright 
As   first  you  greeted  the  morning's 

light, 
And    live  untroubled  by  woes  and 

fears 
Througli  a  second  youth  of  a  liun- 

dred  years. 


UNDER  TUE    VIOLETS. 

1 1  Kit    hands   are  cold;   her  face  is 
white; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 
Ilcr  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light;  — 
Fold   the  white  vesture,  snow  on 

snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone. 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 

Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies. 
In     peace     beneath   "(lie    peaceful 
skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 
Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows 
round 
I'o  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 
That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the 

f^M-ound, 
An<l  drop  tlnir  dead  Laves  on  lier 
mound. 

VVIn-n  o'er  llitir  bouglis  the  sc|iiirrfls 
run, 
And  throii^'h  th.ir  leaven  the  nil. ins 
.■:ill. 
Kui\  rip-Miing  in  the  autumn  sun. 
Till'  arnrns  and  the  elH-slniiis  full. 
Douhl  not  that  she  will  Ined  them 
alL 


For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sin^ 
its  matins  from  tlie  branches  higli, 

And  every  minstrel-\oiie  of  Spring. 
That  trills  beneath  tin-  April  sky. 
Shall   greet    her  with   its  earliest 
cry. 

When  turning  round  their  dial  track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows 
pass. 
Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black. 
The  crickets,  sliding    through  the 

m'ass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 
Sliall  lind  the  prison  wlu're  she  lies, 

And  hear  the  buried  dust  they  seize. 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies 
So   may  the  soul   that   warmed  it 
rise  1 

If  any.  born  of  kindlier  blood. 
Should  ask.  What  maiden  lies  l)e- 
low  ? 
Say  only  this:  A  tender  bud. 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow. 
Lies    withered    where    the    violets 
blow. 


NR  All  ISO    rilF.    SSOW-LINB. 

Si.nw  toiliiiL,'  ujiward  from  the  misty 
valr. 
1  leave  the  i)rigiit  enam«-lled  zones 

below; 
No   more  for  me  their   iM-auteous 
bl(H>m  shall  glow, 
Thiir    lini^rrini:   sweetness   load  the 

morninu  gale; 
l''iw  arc  the  slender  llowi-n'ts,  scent- 
less, |pal<'. 
That  on   llnir   ice-clad   stems,  all 

trendiliuu'  blow 
Along   the   margin    of    unmelting 
snow  : 
\tl  with  mis.idd'  ncd  \<>i(e  thy  veruc 
1  hail. 


HOOD. 


279 


White  realm  of  peace  above  the 
flowering  line, 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky 
spires ! 
O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt 
planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  tilled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain 
desires. 
And    all    the    imclouded   blue   of 
heaven  is  thine ! 


THE   TWO  STREAMS. 

Behold  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending 
as  they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Tiu-ned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  towards  the  sim 
Through  the  cleft  moimtain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled 
braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends. 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender 
rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 


From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen 
tide. 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea ! 


HYMN  OF  TRUST. 

O   Love   Divine,  that  stoopedst  to 
share 
Our  shai-pest  pang,   om*  bitterest 
tear. 
On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art 
near! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 

And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering 

year, 

'So  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread. 

Our  hearts  still  whispering.  Thou 

art  near ! 

When    drooping   pleasure    turns  to 
grief, 
Andtrembling  faith  is  changed  to 
fear, 
The  munmu-ing  wind,  the  quivering 
leaf. 
Shall  softly  tell  us.  Thou  art  near ! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 
O  Love  Divine,  forever  ilear. 

Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 
Living  and  dying.  Thou  art  near! 


Thomas  Hood. 


MBLANCHOL  Y. 

\_From,  the  Ode  thereon.] 

Lol  here    the  best,  the  worst,   the 

world 
Doth  now  remember  or  forget 
Are  in  one  common  ruin  iiurled; 
And  love  and  hate  are  calniiy  met  — 
The  loveliest  eyes  tliat  ever  shone. 
The  fairest  bands,  and  locks  of  jet. 


Is 't  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls 

And  liil  our  eyi?s,  that  we  iiave  set 

Our  love  upon  a  rose's  leaf, 

Our  ln-arls  upon  a  violcl '.' 

Blue  eyes,  rtjd  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 

IJeforeband  we  must  frt^t. 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again: 

But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  love, 

And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 


j280 


nouij. 


O  clasp  lue,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art 

mine, 
And  do  not  take  my  teai-s  amiss; 
For  tears  must  How  to  wasli  away 
A  thouj,'lil   thi-  shows  so  stern  as 

this. 
Forgive,  if  soraewhile  I  forget, 
In  woe  to  come,  the  present  bliss, 
As  frighted  Proseqnne  let  full 
Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis. 
E'en  so  the  dark    and   bright   will 

kiss; 
The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest 

shade; 
And  there  is  even  a  happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid! 
Now  let  us  with  a  spell  invoke 
The   full-orbed    moon  to  grieve  our 

eyes; 
Not  bright,  not  bright  — but  with  a 

cloud 
Lapped  all  aV)ont  her.  l«'t  her  rise 
All  pale  and  diui,  as  if  from  rest. 
The  ghost  of  the  late  burie<l  siUl 
Had  crept  into  the  skies. 
The    moon!    she    is    the   source   of 

sighs. 
The  vei7  face  to  make  us  sad. 
If  but  to  think  in  other  times 
The  same  calm,  (luiei  look  she  had, 
As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base. 
Or    vilf    and    m.-an,    or    fierce    and 

i)ad  — 
The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in 

streams. 
The  fairy   lamp   that   cbanin<l    the 

lad; 
For  so  it  is.  with  spent  delights 
She  taunts  men's  braius,  anil  makes 
lln'Mi  m:ul 

All  things  are  tottched  with   m<^Ian- 

choly, 
iU'Ti  of  Ihi'  seerct  soul's  mistrust 
I'l   fetl  h<T  fair  «'ther<-al  wlnus 
SVeighfd  down    with   vile,  drgnided 

dust. 
Kven  the  bright  ox t  mines  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust  — 
J>ike    the     sweet     blossoms    of    the 

.May. 
WIjosi-  fni'.,'r.in<'e  >Tt<U  in  must. 
Uh,  give  lnr  then  Iwr  iribiUe  juBl, 


Her  sighs  and  tears,    and   musings 

holy : 

There  is  no  uuisic  in  the  lifi' 

That    somids    with     idiot    iaughtei 

solely; 
There 's  not  a  st.  lug  attuned  to  mirth. 
But  has  its  chord  in  melancholy. 


TO    A    CHILD    EMBRACING  HIS 
MOTHER. 

LovK  thy  mother,  little  one! 
Kiss  andelasp  her  neek  again, — 
Il.-reafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  chis'p  her  neek  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mofher,  little  onet 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes. 
Autl  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee,  — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
T(j  meet  them  when  they  caimot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes! 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  tliey  have  often  told, 
Ibieafler  tlinu  mayest  i>ress  in  woe. 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  tiie  while  they  glow  1 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair! 
Altbou-h  it  be  not  silver-gray  — 
Too  earlv  I)i-atb.  bd  on  by  Care. 
May  snai<b  save  (in<'  tiear  lock  away. 
()b!  revere  her  raveu  hair! 

Pray  for  h<r  at  eve  and  mom, 
Tluit    Heaven    may    long  the   stroke- 

d.ter.— 
Kortbuu  mav'sl  live  the  hou-  forlo; 
When  tlu)U  «ili  xsk  to  <lle  wiMi  her 
I'ray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn! 


/  RESTEyfliKIt,    I   nKMFMnEl!. 

I  UKMiMMKit.  I  remember 
'I'br  bollsi'  wbiTo  I   was  bnili. 
Till-  liliii'  window  when'  tlw  sin 
Came  p<'<']iinu  in  at  morn: 
Hi'  never  came  a  wink  too  sikju; 


HOOD. 


281 


p^^.  oronght  too  long  a  day: 
jiut  now,"  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

1  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  vio'ets,  and  the  lily-cups  — 
Those  ilowers  made  of  light! 
rhe  lilacs  where  the  robin  built 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 
The  tree  is  living  yet! 

1  remember,  I  remember 

Whore  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as 

fresii 
To  swallows  on  the  wing; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 
That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

^\^ere  close  against  the  sky. 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  't  is  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  througli 
the  night 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  i'l  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  hail  l''ui  hn-  half  our  powt-rs 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Oar  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Oiu'  fears  our  hopes  l)elied  — 

We  tliought  lier  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 


For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and 
sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  om-s. 


THE  SONO  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weaiy  and  wora, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  lier  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitcli! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still   with  a   voice  of  dolorous 
pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt! " 

' '  Work !  work !  work ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work  —  work  —  work, 

Till   the   stars   shine  through  the 
roof ! 
It's  oh!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  w  ith  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to 
save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  l)and. 

Hand,  and  gusset,  and  seam  — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  drt-aml 

•'  O  men.  with  sisters  dear! 

()  7iien,  with  mutliers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you  "re  wearing  out! 

But  human  creatures'  lives! 
Stitcli  —  stiich  —  stitch, 

In  poAf'rty,  hunger,  and  dirt  — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  — 
'IMiat  ]>liantoni  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 
It  si'cuis  so  like  my  own  — 


282 


HOOD. 


It  seems  so  like  my  own 
Hecause  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
O  (iodi  that  bread  should  l)e  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

My  liihor  never  flags; 
And  wliat  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of 
straw, 
A  enist  of  bread,  and  rags, 
rhat  shattered  roof,  and  this  naked 
floor; 
A  table,  a  broken  chair; 
And   a  wail   so  blank  my  shadow  I 
thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

From  wearj'  cliime  to  chime! 
Work  —  wnrl<  —  work  — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  j,'ii.sset,  ami  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  l)and  — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain 
benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  wearj'  hand. 

*'  Work  —  work  —  work 

In  the  dull  December  light! 
And  work  —  work  —  work. 

When   the  weather  is  wann  and 
bright  I  — 
While  midemeath  the  eaves 

Tile  broodiii'^  swallows  cling. 
As  if  to  show  ine  their  sunny  back-s. 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"  O!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  ami  primro.se  sweet — 
With  tlie  sky  above  my  head, 

.\ml  the  grass  i)ene;ilh  my  feet  I 
For  only  one  slii>rl  hour 

To  feci  a>  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal! 

••()!  but  for  one  short  hour  — 

.\  respite  however  brief! 
.Vo  idessed  leisure  for  love  or  hojie, 

Hut  only  time  for  erief ! 
A  little  wee|iing  woulil  ease  my  heart : 

Hut  in  their  briny  bed 
.My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  throail!"  j 


With  fingers  weary  anrt  worn. 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  nigs. 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stiteh ! 
In  poverty,  huuger,  and  dirt : 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous 

pitch  — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the 
rieh !  — 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 


THE  nniDCE  of  sighs. 

One  more  unfortimate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Riislily  importunate. 
Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  t<Miderly, 
Lift  her  with  care! 
Fasliioned  so  slenderly  — 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments- 
Clinging  like  eereuients. 
Whilst  the  \\ave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving,  not  loathing! 

Touch  her  not  scornfully! 
Think  of  her  nioinnfnlly, 
(iently  ami  liunianly  — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  iier; 
.\ll  that  remains  of  her 
Now  la  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  )nntiny, 
Kasli  and  nmlutiful; 
Past  all  ilishouor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Oidy  the  lieauliful. 

Still,  for  all  slii>s  of  hers, 

<  >ne  of  Kve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  jxiur  lips  of  hers, 

<  lozing  so  clammily. 

Looji  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb  — 


HOOD. 


283 


Her  fair  auburn  tresses  — 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 
Oh!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed  — 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river. 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement. 

She  stood  with  amazement. 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver: 
But  not  the  dark  arch. 
Or  the  black  flowing  river; 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hiu-led  — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  I 

In  she  plunged  boldly  — 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it! 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it ! 
Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it. 
Then,  if  you  can ! 


Take  lier  up  tenderly  — 
Lift  lier  with  care ! 
Fasliioned  so  slenderly  — 
Young  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly. 
Stiffen  too  rigidly. 
Decently,  kindly, 
Smootli  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  tliem, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  witli  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity 
Burning  insanity 
Into  lier  rest ! 
Cross  her  liands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  lier  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  beliavior. 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  lier  Saviour ! 


FAREWELL,  LIFE! 

Farewell,  Life!  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  llie  light. 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night  — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still. 
Upwards  steals  a  vapor  chill; 
Strong  the  earthv  odor  grows  — 


ig  th 
3ll  fii 


Welcome.  Life!  the  spirit  strives: 
Strengtli  returns,  and  Ikiji"  revives; 
<^"lou(iy  fears  and  sha]i('s  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn  — 
<  )'er  tlie  earth  tliei-e  comes  a  bldom 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 
AVarin  jiei-fume  for  vapor  cold  — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould! 


U84 


HouanTON. 


BALLAD. 

It  was  not  in  tho  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast; 
It  was  tile  liujf  of  losi's  — 

We  iiiiukrd  ill.  Ill  as  we  passed! 

That  cluirlisii  season  never  frowned 

<  )n  tally  lovers  yet! 
( >.  no  —  the  world  was  ni-wly  orownetl 

With  (lowers  when  first  we  met. 

'T  was  twilight,  and  1  bade  you  go  — 
Hut  still  you  hold  nic  fast; 

It  was  tli<'  time  of  roses, — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  1 


TRUE    DEATH. 

It  is  not  death,  that  some  time  in  a 

sii;h 
This   eloquent  breath  shall   fake   its 

siteecbless  tliiillt; 
That  soiiif  time  ;h<'se  brifjht  stars, 

that  now  reply 
III  sunliirht  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in 

ni.uht; 
Tliat  this  wann  conscious  flesh  sliall 

l)erisli  <|iiite. 
And  all  lifi-'s  niddv  sprinps  forfjet  to 

flow; 
'liiat    tlioiiu'lit    shall    eease.  and    the 

immortal  sprite 
Hi-  lajipi'd  in  alien  elav  and  laid  be- 

l..w; 
IL  i>  nut  di-ath  to  know  this — but  to 

know 


That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at 

new  graves 
In  tender  pili:rimage,  will  i-ease  to  go 
So  duly  ami  so  :'ft.  — and  when  grass 

waves 
Over  the  past-a\\av.    there   mav   be, 

then 
No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


LOVE   UETTEIiLD   IIY    TIME. 

Love,  dearest  lady,  sticli  as  1  would 

si^eak. 
Lives  not  within    iIh-  humor  of  the 

eye ; 
Not   i)eing  but  an  (uitward  phantasy 
That  skims  the  SHfface  of  a   tinted 

cheek, — 
Else  it  would  want>  with  beauty,  and 

prow  weak. 
.\s  if  the  rose  nia<le  summer  —  and 

so  lie 
Amongst   the  pcri'.halilr  ihinus  that 

die. 
Unlike  the  love  which  1  would  give 

and  seek : 
Whose   health   is  of  no  line  —  to  fer'\ 

decay 
With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy 

prinie. 
Lovi'  is  its  own  greai  loveliness  al- 

way. 
.\nd   takes    new    beauties    froni    the 

touch  of  time; 
Its  bough  owns  no  lJec«-ml)er  and  no 

May, 
IJut  bears  it.s  blo.ssoms  into  winter's 

clime. 


George   Houghton. 

\Fri>m  Thv  /„  i/rwl  n/ St.  OhiC*  Kirk.] 

VAlHiint:   Will  III  \i:    i.\i:/,'.'<  hEl'.tirn'nE. 

At  kirk  kmlt  Valboru.  the  cold  aliar-sione 
I{e<liii^  lieneatb  her.     Kill'-d  with  eboking  grief 
SIk-  could  not  say  yood-bye.  but  b\  a  ]<,*•:<• 
Her  rosary  S4'nl  bim:  and  \\b<n  lie  bid  elimbed 
His  hur^i-.  and  on  tie-  t,ii-..f|  biidye  -h<'  In  ard 


EOUOHTON. 


285 


The  dull  tramp  of  his  troopers,  up  she  fared 

By  stair  and  ladder  to  old  Steindor's  post,  — 

For  he  was  mute,  and  could  not  nettle  lier 

With  words'  cheap  guise  of  sympathy.     There  perched 

Beside  him  up  among  the  dusty  bells. 

She  pushed  her  face  between  the  nmllions,  looked 

Across  tlie  world  of  snow,  lighted  like  day 

By  moon  and  moor-ild ;  saw  with  misty  eyes 

A  gleam  of  steel,  an  eagle's  feather  tall; 

And  through  the  clear  air  watched  it,  tossing,  pass 

Across  tlie  sea-line ;  saw  the  ship  lift  sail 

And  blow  to  soutliward,  catching  light  and  shade 

As  'mong  the  sheers  and  skerries  it  picked  out 

A  crooked  pathway;  saw  it  round  the  ness, 

And,  catclung  on(;  last  flicker  of  the  moon. 

Fade  into  nothingness.     Witii  desolate  steps 

She  left  the  bellman  and  crept  down  the  stairs; 

Heard  all  the  air  re-echoing:  "  He  is  gone!  "  — 

Felt  a  great  sob  beliind  her  lips,  and  tears 

Flooding  the  sluices  of  her  eyes;  turned  toward 

The  empty  town,  and  for  the  first  time  saw 

That  Xidaros  was  small  and  irksome,  felt 

First  time  her  tether  galling,  and,  by  heaven! 

Wished  she'd  been  born  a  man-child,  free  to  fare 

Unhindered  through  the  world's  wide  pastm'es,  free 

To  stand  tliis  hour  with  Axel  as  his  squire. 

And  with  him  brave  the  sea-breeze.     Aimlessly 

She  sought  the  scattered  gold-threads  that  had  formed 

Life's  glowing  texture:  but  how  dull  they  seemed! 

How  bootless  the  long  waste  of  lagging  weeks, 

With  dull  do-over  of  mean  drudgeries, 

And  miserable  cheer  of  pitying  mouths 

Whistling  and  whipping  through  small  roimd  of  change 

Their  cowering  pack  of  saw  and  circumstance! 

How  slow  the  crutches  of  the  limping  years ! 


[Six  Quatrains  from  Album-Leaves.] 
COURAGE. 

Darkness  before,  all  joy  behind ! 
Yet  keep  thy  courage,  do  not  mind: 
He  soonest  reads  the  lesson  riglil 
Who  reads  witli  back    against  the 
light  I 


AMBITION. 

TiiK  palace  with  its  splendid  dome, 

That  nearest  to  the  sky  aspin^s, 
Is  first  to  clmllengc  storms  tliat  roam 
Above  it.  and  call  down  llieir  tires. 


THIS  NAME   OF  MINE. 

Tins  name  of  mine  the  sun  may  steal 

away, 
Tierce    lire   consume    it,  moths   eat 

name  and  day ; 
Ormildew's  hand  may  smooch  it  with 

decay. — 
But  not  my  love,  for  that  shall   live 

alway. 


REGRET. 

I'vK  regretted  most  sincerely, 
I've  repented  decj-ly,  long; 

But  to  tliose  I've  loved  iiios'  d 
I've  oftenest  done  wron^. 


■arly, 


286 


HOUOm  !}N. 


PVIilTY. 

Let  your  irutli  .stand  suro, 
Ami  tin-  world  is  tnu'; 

Let  your  lie<irl  ke«-p  luuv  — 
And  the  world  will,  too. 


CIIAIUTY. 


He 


erred,    no    doubt,    perhaps    he 
siniipd: 

Shall  I  ihon  dare  to  cast  a  stone  ? 
Perhajis  this  blotch,  on  a  gannent 
white. 
Counts  less  than  the  dingy  robes  I 
own. 


[From  AII'um'Jytat^B.] 
DAfS). 

1   GAVE   my   little   Lrirl   baek  to  tl.« 
daisies, 
From  thi-m  it  was  that  she  took  hei 
name ; 
I  gave  my  preeious  one  hack  to  the 
daisies. 
From  when;  they  caught  their  eolor 
she  eauie ; 
And  now,  when  1  look  in  the  face  of 
a  tlaisY, 
My  little  fiirl's  face  I  see,  1  seel 
My  tears,  down  dropping,  with  thein 
coinminjile. 
And   they  jiive  my  precious  one 
baek  to  me. 


Lord  Houghton  (Richard  Monckton  Milnes». 


SISCE    YKSTEHnAY. 

I'm  not  where  I  was  yesterday, 
Thiiuijh  my  home  be  still  the  same. 
For  I  iiavc;  lost  tin-  vcriist  friend 
WlionifVcr  a  friend  coidd  namt'; 
I'm  not  where  I  was  ytsu-rday, 
Tliounh  change  there  he  little  to  see. 
For  a  part  of  myself  hits  lapsed  away 
From  Time  to  Eternity. 

1  have  lost  a  thought  that  many  a 

year 
^\■as  most  familiar  food 
1(1  my  inmost  mind,  by  night  or  day. 
In  merry  or  plaintive  mootl; 
1  have  lost  a  liojic.  that  many  a  year 
Looki'd  far  on  a  gleaming  way, 
\\  hi-n  tlie  walls  of  JJfe  were  closing 

loiind. 
And  the  sky  was  sombre  gray. 


I  thoimlit,  how  should  I  see  him  first, 
\\'>\s    hiiiild  our  hands  first  meet, 
Wiiliin  liit  ntuni,  —  u|M>n  the  st;i!r, — 
\l  the  <rirn<M  of  the  street  ? 
I  thought,  where,  should  1  hear  liim 
flrnl, 


How  eatch  his  greeting  tone,  — 
And  thus  I  went  up  to  his  door. 
And  they  told  me  he  was  gone! 

Oh!   what  is  Life  hut  a  .stun  of  love. 
.\nd  Death  but  to  lose  it  all  ? 
Weeds  be  for  those  that  are  left  b«;- 

hind. 
And  not  for  tho,«.e  that  fall! 
Ami  now  how  mighty  a  sum  of  love 

Is  lost  for  ever  to  me 

\o,  I'm  not  what  1  was  yestenlay, 
1  hough  change  there  be  little  to  see 


LAIion. 


IIi.AitT  of  the  i)eoj)le!  Working  menj 
Marrow  and  nene  of  bniu.ui  powers; 
Who  on  yoin-  sturdy  backs  mislain 
Through    streaming  lime  this  world 

of  our?*; 
Hold    by    that    title,  —  which    pro 

claims, 
That  ye  are  undismayed  and  strong. 
.\cc()Miplishing  what4«ver  aims 
May  to  the  sons  of  earth  belong. 


HOUGHTON. 


28i 


And  he  who  still  and  silent  sits 
In  closed  room  or  shady  nook, 
And  seems  to  nurse  his  idle  wits 
With  folded  arms  oroi)en  book:  — 
To  things  now  working  in  that  mind, 
Your  children's  children   well   may 

owe 
Blessings  that  hope  has  ne'er  defined 
Till  from  his  busy  thoughts  they  flow. 

Thus  all  must  work  —  with  head  or 

hand, 
For  self  or  others,  good  or  ill : 
Life  is  ordained  to  bear,  like  land, 
Some  fruit,  be  fallow  as  it  will ; 
Evil  has  force  itself  to  sow 
Where  we  deny  the  healthy  seed,  — 
And  all  om-  choice  is  this,  —  to  grow 
Pasture  and  grain  or  noisome  weed. 

Then  in  content  possess*  your  hearts, 
Unenvious  of  each  other's  lot, — 
For  those  which  seem  the  easiest  parts 
Have  travail  which  ye  reckon  not: 
And  lie  is  bravest,  happiest,  best, 
\Vho,  from  the  task  within  his  span 
Earns  for  himself  his  evening  rest. 
And  an  increase  of  good  for  man. 


/  WANDERED  BY  THE  BROOK- 
SIDE. 

I  WANDERED  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill,  — 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  q\\\v\>  of  any  bird, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

W^as  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree, 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade. 

And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid; 

For  1  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word,  — 

15ut  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  1  lieard. 


He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not,  — 
The  night  came  on  alone,  — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one. 
Each  on  his  golden  throne; 
The  evening  air  passetl  by  my  cheek 
The  leaves  above  svere  stirred ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  somid  1  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing. 
When  something  stood  behind, 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 
1  knew  its  touch  was  kind : 
It  drew  me  nearer  —  nearer. 
We  did  not  speak  one  word ; 
For  the  beating  of  om-  own  hearts 
W^as  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


THE    WORTH  OF  HOURS. 

Believe  not  that  your  inner  eye 
Can  ever  in  just  measure  Ivy 
The  worth  of  hours  as  they  go  by: 

For  every  man's  weak  self,  alas! 
Makes  him  to  see  them,  while  thej 

pass, 
As  through  a  dim  or  tinted  glass: 

But  if  in  earnest  care  you  would 
Mete  out  to  each  its  part  of  good. 
Trust  rather  to  yom*  after-mood. 

Those  surely  are  not  fairly  spent, 
That  leave  your   spirit  bowed  and 

bent 
In  sad  imrest  and  ill-content: 

And  more,  —  though  free  from  seem- 
ing harm, 
You  rest  from  toil  of  mind  or  ann, 
Or      slow     retire     from    Pleasure's 
charm,  — 

If  then  a  painful  sense  comes  on 
Of  something  wholly  lost  and  gone, 
Vainly  enjtjyed,  or  vainly  done.  — 

Of    something    from     your  being's 

chain, 
Hroke  off,  nor  to  be  linked  again 
By  all  mere  memory  can  retain.  — 


288 


HOUGHTON. 


Uix)u    your    heart   this    truth    may 

rise, — 
Notliing  thai  altogi-ther  dies 
SiiJlices  man's  just  destinies: 

^o  sliould  we  livf,  that  every  liour 
May  <lie  jus  ilii's  the  natural  llower, — 
A  self-revivins,'  thing  of  power; 

riiat  every  thouglit  ami  every  deed 
.M:iy  hold  within"  itself  the  seed 
( »f  futui'e  gooil  and  future  need: 

KMet'inlng  sorrow,  whose  employ 
Is  to  develop  not  ticstroy. 
Far  better  than  a  barren  joy. 


FOIIE  VER    VNCONFESSED. 

TiiKY  seemed  to  those  who  saw  them 

meet 
I'lic  worltlly  friends  of  every  day, 
11. T    smile     was    imdistiubeil     and 

sweet, 
i  lis  courtesy  was  free  and  gay. 

Hut  yet  if  one  the  other's  name 
III  some  unguarded  nioment  heard, 
I'lie  heart  you  thought  .so  ealm  and 

tame, 
Woidd  struggle  like  a  captured  bin! : 

And  letters  of  mere  fonnal  phnise 

Were  blistered  wilb  rejieated  te;irs, — 
And  tliis  was  nut  the  work  of  days, 
liul    ha<l    guiie    on    lor    years    and 
years! 

Alas,  that  I^)Ve  w.is  not  loo  strong 
For  maiden  shame  and  maidy  i>n«le! 
Alas,  tliat  I  bey  delayed  too  long 
riie  goal  of  mutual  i>liss  beside. 

Vet  what  no  ehanee  eould  then  re- 
veal. 

And  iieitber  would  be  lirsl  lo  (»\mi. 

Let  fate  and  eoinau'e  now  conceal. 

Wben  irnib  eonid  brim;  remorse 
alone. 


DIVOHCEI). 

W'v:  thai    wire  triends,  yet    are    no" 
now. 

We  tbat  nmst  daily  meet 
With    ready    wonls   and    courteous 
bow, 

Ac<iuaiiuance  of  the  street; 
We  nuisi  not  scorn  the  holy  past, 

We  nuisl  remember  still 
To  honor  feelings  that  oiUlist 

The  reason  ami  the  will. 

1  might  reprove  thy  broken  fai'.h, 

1  might  recall  the  time 
Wben  ibou  wert  chartered  mine  till 
death. 

Through  every  fate  and  clime; 
When  every  letter  was  a  vow, 

And  fancy  was  nt>t  free 
To  dream  of  ended  love;  anti  thou 

Wouklst*ay  the  same  of  me. 

Xo,  no,  'tis  not  for  us  lo  trim 

The  i)alance  of  our  wrongs, 
F.nougb  to  leave  remor-e  to  him 

'i'o  whom  remorse  belongsl 
Let  our  dead  friendship  b«'  to  us 

A  desecrated  name, 
I'luitteiable,  mysterious, 

A  sorrow  and  a  shame. 


.V    sorrow    tbat     two     souls    whidi 
grew 
ICncased  in  nuiliial  lili>.-. 
Should    wamlcr,    callous    stniugei"9, 
through 
So  cold  a  world  as  this  I 
.V  sbame  that  we,  whose  liearts  had 
earned 
For  life  an  <'arly  heaven. 
Should  be  like  angel-,  self-returned 
To  Death,  when  once,  forgiven  I 

I,ef  us  remain  as  living  slirns. 

Where  Ibey  tbal  rmi  may  n'ad 
I'ain  and  disgiare  in  many  lines. 

As  of  a  loss  indeed  : 
'J'bai  of  our  fellows  any  who 

Tbc  i)ri/.e  of  love  bave  won 
May  tremble  at  the  Ibonu'bt  to  do 

The  tbing  that  we  bavo  done! 


HOWE. 


289 


ALL   THINGS   ONCE  ARE   THINGS 
FOR  EVER. 

All  things  once  are  things  for  ever; 
iSoul,  once  Hving,  lives  for  ever; 
Blame  not  what  is  only  once, 
When  that  once  endures  for  ever; 
Love,  once  felt,  though  soon  forgot 
Moulds  the  heart  to  good  for  ever; 


Once  betrayed  from  childly  faith, 
Man  is  conscious  man  for  ever; 
Once  the  void  of  life  revealed, 
It  nuist  deepen  on  for  evei'. 
Unless  God  fill  up  the  heart 
With  himself  for  once  and  ever: 
Once  made  God  and  man  at  once, 
God  and  man  are  one  for  ever. 


Julia  Ward  Howe. 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the 

coming  of  the  Lord ; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where 

the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning 

of  his  terrible  swift  sword, 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

1  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of 
a  hundred  circling  camps; 

riiey  have  huilded  him  an  altar  in  the 
evening  dews  and  damps; 

I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by 
the  dim  and  flaring  lamps, 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  bur- 
nished rows  of  steel : 

"  As  ye  deal  with  my  coiitenmers,  so 
with  you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 

Let  the  hero,  born  of  woman,  crush 
the  serpent  with  his  heel. 
Since  God  is  marching  on ! " 

He  has  sormded  forth  the  trumpet  that 
shall  )icvfr  cull  ret  real; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  be- 
fore his  judgment-seat; 

Ohl  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him! 
be  jubilant,  my  feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  (Jhrist  was 

l)orn  across  the  sea. 
With  a  glory  in  liis  ])()S()m  that  trans- 

figm'es  you  and  me ; 


As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  na 
die  to  make  men  free. 

While  God  is  marching  on! 


\_From  Thoughts  in  I'ere  la  Chaise.'] 

IMAGINED  REPLY  OF  E  LOIS  A    TO 
THE  POET'S  QUESTIOXIXa. 

"  What  was  I  cannot  tell  —  thou 
know'st  our  story. 

Know' St  how  we  stole  (iod's  treasure 
from  on  high ; 

Without  heaven's  virtue  we  had  heav- 
en's glory, 

Too  justly  om"  delights  were  doomed 
to  die. 

"  Intense  as  were  our  blisses,  e'en  so 
painful 

The  keen  privation  it  was  ours  to 
share: 

All  states,  all  places  l)arren  proved 
and  Imneful, 

Dead  stones  grew  pitiful  at  our  de- 
spair; 

*'  Till,  to   the  cloister's  solitude  re- 

])airing, 
Our  feet  the  way  of  holier  sorrows 

trod. 
Hid   from   each   other,  yet    Icgethei 

sharing 
The  labor  of  the  Providence  of  God 


290 


HOWE. 


"  Often  at  luiduigLt,  on  the  cold  stone 
lying, 

My  passioniile  sobs  have  rent  the  pas- 
sive air. 

While  my  crisped  linLcers  clutched  the 
paveniiul,  trying 

To  hold  him  last,  a.s  he  had  still  been 
there. 

•*  I  called,  I  shrieked,  till  my  spent 

breath  came  faintly, 
I  sank,  in  pain  Christ's  martyrs  could 

nut  bear; 
Then  dreamed  I  saw  liim,  beautiful 

and  saintly. 
As  his  far  convent  tolled  the  hour  of 

prayer. 

"  Solemn  and  deep  that  vision  of  re- 
uidon  — 

lie  passed  in  rol)e,  and  cowl,  and  san- 
dali'd  feet, 

Hut  our  dis.sever'd  lips  held  no  com- 
munion. 

Our  long  divorced  f^laun^s  could  not 
meet. 

"  Then  slowly,  frouj  that  iiuiii,'cr  of 
stiisalion, 

'I'iial  \i\\s,i'  forhap|)iness,  which  makes 
it  sin, 

I  rose  lo  calmer,  wider  contemplation. 

And  kuiw  the  Holiest,  and  his  disci- 
pline. 

"()  thdu  who  call'st  on  nn-I  if  iliat 

Ihou  l)eare8t 
A  woiuidi-d  heart  l)eneath  thy  w<  lu- 

an's  vest, 
if  tliou  iriy  mournful  rarlhly  forlime 

shar«'Hl. 
sbap-  tlic  IiIl'Ii  hi)|ies  that  <aliind  my 

fever'd  l)re«st. 

'■  No'    vainly  do   I    l)oast   I{eli;;l(in's 

power, 
l':iiili  ilawned  upon  tlieeyanwllh  Sor 

row  dim; 
I  tolird  and  trusted,  till  tlierr  r.xuw 

;in  lioitr 
Tlial  saw  ni<'  -I-,  p  in  (Jod,  ami  w.ikc  I 

with  Imii.  I 


"  JSeek   comfort   thus,   for  all    life's 

liainiul  losing. 
Compel  from  .Sorrow  merit,  and  n*- 

ward. 
And  sometimes  wile  a  mournful  hoiu 

in  musing 
How  Kloisa  loved  her  Abelard." 

The   voice  lied  lieav'nward   ere    Its 

si)ell  was  broken,  — 
I  stretched  a  treiiudous  hand  within 

the  Ljnite, 
And  bore  away  a  ravished  rose,  in 

token 
Of  woman's  highest  love  and  lianl 

est  fate. 


STASZAS    FI.'OM    THE  "  nuiiVTE 
TO  A   SIlliVAST." 

On!    grief  that  wring'st   mine   eyes 

with  tears. 
Demand  not  from  my  lips  a  song; 
'I'lial  fated  gift  of  early  years 
I've  loved  too  well,  I've  nursed  too 

long. 

What  boot  my  verses  to  tlie  luari 
'I'liat  bnath  of  mim-  no  more  shall 

stir'.' 
Where  wire  the  piety  of  .\rl. 
If  thou  wert  silent  over  her  ".' 

'Ibis  was  a  maidi-n.  light  of  foot. 
Whose  bUK)m  and  laughtA-r,  fresh  and 

free. 
Flit  led  like  simshine,  in  and  out 
Among  my  little  ones  a^.d  m<>. 

Hers    was    the   power   lo   i|Mtll    and 

charm: 
'I'he  readv  wil  that  children  love; 
The    faithful    breast,    the    sbieldiiij^ 

ann 
I'illowed  In  sleeji  my  Irnib-rrsl  dovft 

.Slic  |ila>i'i|  in  all  the  luuseiN  plays, 
Sin-  nd."<l  in  all  it,s  liiilr  slrifi-; 
A  thousand  genial  ways  rndfured 
Her  jMeaence  to  \ny  daily  lif*-. 


HOWE. 


29J 


She  ranged   my   hair   with   gem  or 

flower, 
Carefid,  the  festal  (h'aperies  hung, 
Or  plied  her  needle,  hour  by  hour 
In  cadence  with  the  song  1  sung. 

My  highest  joy.  she  could  not  share, 
Nor  fathom  sorrow's  deep  abyss; 
For  that,  she  wore  a  smiling  air, 
She  hung  her  head  and  pined  for  thiH. 

"  And  she  shall  live  with  me,"  I  said, 
"  Till  all  my  pretty  ones  be  grown; 
ril  give  my  girls  my  little  maid, 
The  gayest  thing  I  call  my  own." 

Or  else,  methought,  some  farmer  bold 

Should  woo  and  win  my  gentle  Liz- 
zie, 

And  I  should  stock  her  house  four- 
fold. 

Be  with  her  wedding  blithely  busy. 

But  lo!  Consumption's  spectral  form 
Sucks  from  her  lips  the  flickering 

breath ; 
In  these  pale  flowers,  these  tear-drops 

wann, 
1  bring  the  momrnful  dower  of  Death. 

1  could  but  say,  with  faltering  voice 
And  eyes  that  glanced  aside  to  weep, 
"  Be  strong  in  faith  and  hope,  my 

child; 
lie  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

*'  And  though  thou  walk  the  shadowy 

vale. 
Whose  end  we  know  not,  lie  will  aid; 
His  rod  and  stafif  shall  slay  thy  steps;" 
*■  I  know  it  well,"  she  smiled  and  said. 

She  knew  it  well,  and  knew  yet  more 
My  deepest  \\o\n\  though  nnexprest. 
The  hope  that  God's  appointed  sleep 
Hut  heightens  ravisinneni  with  rest. 

Mychildrcn.  living  flowers,  shallcome 
And   strew  with  seed  this  grave  of 

tbiiii\ 
And    bid    the    blushing   growths    of 

spring 
rhy  dreaiy  painted  cross  entwine. 


Thus  Faith,  cast  out  of  barren  creeds, 
Shall  rest  in  emblems  of  her  own; 
IJeauty,  still  springing  from  Decay, 
The  cross-wood  budding  to  the  crown. 


THE  DEAD   CHRIST. 

Take  the  dead  Christ  to  my  chamber 

The  Christ  I  broiigbl  from  Kouk;; 
Over  all  the  tossing  ocean. 

He  has  reached  his  western  home; 
Bear  him  as  in  procession, 

And  lay  him  soleuuily 
Where,    through    weary   night    and 
morning, 

He  shall  bear  me  company. 

The  name  I  bear  is  other 

Than  than  that  I  bore  by  birth, 
And  I've  given  life  to  children 

Who'll  grow  and  dwell  on  earth; 
But  the  time  comes  swiftly  towards 
me 

(Nor  do  I  bid  it  stay), 
Wlien  the  dead  Christ  will  be  more 
to  me 

Than  all  I  hold  to-day. 

Lay  the  dead  Christ  beside  me. 

Oh,  press  him  on  my  heart, 
I  woidd  hold  him  long  and  painfidly 

Till  the  weaiT  tears  shculd  start; 
Till  the  divine  contagion 

Ileal  me  of  self  and  sin. 
And   the   cold   weight  press  wholly 
down 

The  pulse  that  chokes  within. 

Repioof  and  frost,  they  fret  me. 

Towards  the  free,  the  stmny  lands, 
From  the  chaos  of  exist enee 

I  stretch  these  feeble  hands; 
And,  jienitential.  kneeling. 

Pray  <^'Od  woidd  nor  be  wroth. 
Who  gave  not  the  strength  of  feeling, 

And  strength  of  labor  both. 

Thou  'rt  hut  a  Mooden  carving, 
Defaeed  of  worms,  and  old ; 

Yet    IMoi'e  to  me  thou  eoiild^t    not  l-f 
Wert  thou  all  wrapt  in  gold" 


292 


H0WELL8. 


Like  the  gein-l)e(lizoiie(l  l)aby 

Which.  iU  the  Twelfth-day  noon, 

They  show  from  tlie  Ara  Cu-U's  steps, 
To  a  merry  dancin^-time. 

I  ask  of  thee  no  wonders, 
No  changing  wiiitc  or  red ; 


I  dream  not  tliou  art  hving, 
1  love  anil  prize  thee  dead. 

That  salutary  deailness 
1  seek,  through  want  and  i)ain. 

From  which  CJod's  own  hiuli  powei 
can  bid 
Our  virtue  rise  again. 


William   Deane  Howells. 


THE  MYSTEIilES. 

OxcE  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child, 
I  crept. 
Holding  my  breath; 
There,  safe  and  sad,  lay  shuddering, 
and  wejit 
At  the  dark  mystery  of  Death. 

Weary  and  weak,  and  worn  with  all 
tmrest, 
Spent  with  the  strife.  — 
O   motht-r.    let   me   weep   upon   thy 
breast 
At  the  sad  nivtery  of  Lifel 


THANh'SOfflXa. 

LouK.  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought : 
Lord,  for  the  w  i<k<d  will 
lirt rayed  and  balll.'d  still: 
For  the  licart  from  itself  kept, 
Our  thanksgiving  accept. 

For  ii^norant  hopfs  that  wt-n- 
Itrokin  to  our  blind  ])rayer: 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow,  smt 
I'lilo  oiH'  cliastiscmciit : 
For  all  loss  of  sciinlnL,'  good, 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 


(o.wrf:\r/<>.\. 

IIk  faU<-rs  <>n  the  threshold, 
.she  lin;^iTs  on  tin-  slair; 

Can  it  Im"  thai  was  his  footstep  ? 
Can  it  Iff  that  she  is  there  '.' 


Without  is  tender  yearning. 
And  tender  love  is  within; 

They  can    hear  each  other's   heart- 
beats. 
But  a  w  ooden  door  is  between. 


77//;   POET'S  FRIENDS. 

TiiK  robin  sings  in  the  elm; 
The  cattle  stand  bi'neath 
Setlate  ami  gravi-  with  great  brown 

•'Vi'S 

And  fragrant  meadow-breath. 

They  listen  to  the  Mattered  bini, 
I'lie  wise-looking.  stui>id  things; 

Ami  tin  y  never  imdei-staud  a  word 
Of  all  the  robin  sings. 


Tin:  MiiiiEnniRS. 

O.N  the  Ifialto  ISritlge  we  .slant!; 
The  street  eiilis  luiiler  and  makes 
no  sound ; 
Bui,  with  bargains  shrickotl  on  every 
hand, 
The  noi>.y  market  rings  around. 

"  Miillif rritM,  JItiriiiiiUirrrirs,  hrrrT' 
A  tuneful  voice,  —  and  light,  light 
measure; 
Though  I  hardly  shouM  count  thesrt 
iiiulberries  <lear. 
If  I  paid  three  limes  the  price  for 
my  pleasure. 


HOWELLS. 


293 


Brown  liands  splashed  with  mulberry 
bluod, 
The  basket  wreathed  with  mulber- 
ry leaves 
Hiding  the  berries  beneath  them;  — 
good ! 
Let  us  take  whatever  the  young 
rogue  gives. 

For  you  know,  old  friend,  I  haven  't 
eaten 
A  mulberry  since  the  ignorant  joy 
Of  anytliing  sweet  in  the  mouth  could 
sweeten 
All  tills  bitter  world  for  a  boy. 

O,  I  mind  the  tree  in  the  meadow 
stood 
By  th(^  road  near  the  hill :  w'here  I 
climbed  aloof 
On  its  branches,  this  side  of  the  gir- 
dled wood, 
I  could  see  the  top  of  our  cabin 
roof. 

And,  looking  westward,  could  sweep 
the  shores 
Of  the  river  where  we  used  to  swim, 
Und(>r  the  gliostiy  sycamores, 
Ilamiting  the  waters  smooth  and 
dim; 

And  eastward  athwart  the  pasture- 
lot 
And    over    the    milk-white  buck- 
wheat field 
I  could  see  the  stately  elm,  where  I 
shot 
The    first    black    squirrel    I    ever 
killed. 

And  southward  over  the  bottom-land 
I  could  see  the  mellow  breadth  of 
farm 
From  the    river-shores  to  the  hills 
expand. 
Clasped    in    the    curving    river's 
ann. 

Ill    the    fields   we   set   oiu'   giiilrlcss 
snares 
^^or  ral)bits  and  pigeons  and  waiy 
quails, 


Content  with  vaguest  feathers  and 
hairs 
From  doubtful  wings  and  vanished 

tails. 

And  in  the  blue  summer  afternoon 

We  used  to  sit  in  the  mulberry-tree ; 
The  breaths  of  wind  that  remem- 
bered June 
Shook    the    leaves  and  glittering 
berries  free; 

And  while  we  watched  the  wagons  go 
Across  the  river,  along  the  road. 

To  the  mill  above,  or  the  mill  below, 
With  horses  that  stooped  to  the 
heavy  load, 

We  told  old  stories  and  made  new 
lilans. 
And  felt  our  hearts  gladden  within 
us  again. 
For  we  did  not  dream  that  this  life  of 
a  man's 
Could  ever  be  what  we  know  as 
men. 

We  sat  so  still  that  the  woodpeckers 
came 
And  pillaged  the  berries  overhead; 
From  his  log  the  chipmonk,  waxen 
tame, 
Peered  and   listened  to  what  we 
said. 

One  of  us  long  ago  was  carried 
To  his  grave  on  the  hill  above  tlie 
tree ; 

One  is  a  fanner  there,  and  married; 
One  has  wandered  over  llie  sea. 

And,  if  you  ask  me,  I  hardly  know 
Whotlier  I'd   be  the  dead   or   tli( 
cIow7i,  — 
The  clod  above  or  the  clay  below.  -  - 
Or  this    listless    dust    by   fortune 
blown 

To  alien  lands.     For,  however  it  is, 
So  little  we  kcei)  with  us  in  life. 

At  best  we  win  ou\y  victories. 
Not  jieace,  not  peace,  O  friend,  in 
this  strife. 


294 


nOWITT. 


But  if  I  could  turn  fioin  tin-  loii<?  tlc- 
fpiit 
Of  the  little  successes  once  more, 
ami  he 
A   boy,   with  the  whole  wide  world 
at  my  feet 
Under  the  shade  of  the  imdberry 
tree,  — 

From  the  shame  of  the  scjuandercd 
chances,  the  sleei> 
Of    the    will    that    cannot    itsidf 
awaken. 
From   the    i>romise   the  future  can 
never  keep, 
From  the  litful  i)nri)0ses  vague  and 
shaken, — 

Then,  while  the  grasshopper  sung  out 
shrill 
In  the  grass  beneath  the  blanching 
thistle. 
And  the  afternoon  air,  with  a  tender 
thrill. 
Uarked  to  the  <iuail's  complaining 
whistle,  — 


Ah  niel  should  I  paint  the  morrows 
again 
In   (juite   the   colors  so    faint    to- 
day. 
And    with   the  imperial  mull>erry'8 
stain 
Ke-purple  life's  doublet  of  hodden- 
gray  ? 

Know  again    the  losses    zi   disillu- 
sion '.' 
For  the  sake  of  the  hope,  have  the 
old  deceit  ?  — 
In  spite  of  tlie  question's  bitter  in- 
fusion, 
Don't  you   find    these  mulberries 
over-sweet  ? 

All    our   atoms    are    changed,    they 
say ; 
And  the  taste  is  so  different  since 
then : 
We   live,  but   a    world    has   passed 
away. 
With   the   years   that   perished   to 
make  us  men. 


Mary   Howitt. 


TFfR   nnOOM-FLOWKU. 

Oil,  the  broom,  tlie  yellow  broom  I 

'i'he  ancient  jmet  simg  it. 
And  dear  if  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  at  rest  among  It. 

I  know  the  rejilms  where  peojjle  say 
The  (lowers  have  not  th<ir  fellow  ; 

I   know   where  they  shine  out   like 
suns. 
The  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

I  know  wheri>  ladies  live  enchained 

In  luxury's  silken  fetters. 
And    (lowers   a.s  bright  as  glittering 
Ueina 

Are  used  for  wrltti-n  letters. 

Hut  ne'er  was  flower  so  fair  as  this. 
In  mo«lern  days  or  uldeii; 


It  gioweth  on  its  nodding  stem 
Like  to  a  irarlaiid  u'olden. 


.Vnd  all  alioiit  my  mother's  door 
Shine  out  its  glittering  Imshe.s, 

And  down  the  glen,   where  clear  as 
light 
'I'lie  mnimtain-water  gushes. 

Take    all    the    rest;    but    give    me 
this. 

And  the  biril  that  nestle.s  in  it; 
I  love  it,  for  it  loves  the  brooju  — 

The  green  and  yellow  liniift. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  (|ii.fn  of  (low- 
ers. 
And  bn.isi  of  llial  of  Sharon, 

Of  lilies  like  to  inaililr  rlips. 

And  I  he  p*lden  ro<l  ni  .\aron; 


HOW'ITT. 


296 


I  care  not.  how  these  (lowers  may  he 
Beloved  of  man  and  woman; 

The  hroom  it  is  the  ilower  for  me, 
That'  groweth  on  the  common. 

Oh,  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom! 

Th(!  ancient  poet  sung  it. 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  and  rest  amons  it. 


TIBBIE  INGLIS. 

BoifNiE  Tibbie  Inglis! 

Through  sim  and  stonny  weather. 
She  kept  upon  the  broomy  hills 

Her  father's  flock  together. 

Sixteen  summers  had  she  seen,  — 
A  rosebud  just  misealing; 

Without  sorrow,  without  fear, 
In  her  mountain  shealing. 

She  was  made  for  happy  thoughts, 
For  i)layful  wit  and  laughter; 

Singing  on  the  hills  alone, 
With  echo  singing  after. 

She  had  hair  as  deeply  black 

As  the  cloud  of  thunder; 
She  had  brows  so  beautiful, 

And  dark  eyes  flashing  imder. 

Bright  and  witty  shepherd  girl, 
Beside  a  mountain  water, 

I  found  her,  whom  a  king  himself 
Would  proudly  call  his  daughter. 

She  was  sitting  'mong  the  crags, 
Willi  and  mossed  and  hoary, 

Reading  in  an  ancient  book 
Some  old  martyr  story. 

Tears  were  starting  to  her  eyes, 
Solemn  thought  was  o'er  her; 

When  she  saw  in  that  lone  i)lace 
A  stranger  stand  before  her. 

Crimson  was  her  sunny  cheek. 
Anil  her  lii)s  st'eined  moving 

With  the  beatings  of  her  heart;  — 
How  could  I  help  loving '? 


On  a  crag  I  sat  me  do(\n. 

Upon  the  mountain  hoary. 
And  made  her  read  again  to  me 

That  old  pathetic  story. 

Then  she  sang  me  mountain  songs. 

Till  the  air  was  ringing 
With  her  clear  and  warbling  voice. 

Like  a  skylark  singing. 

And  when  eve  came  on  at  length. 
Among  the  blooming  heather, 

We  herded  on  the  mountain-side 
Her  father's  flock  together. 

And  near  unto  her  father'.-,  house 
I  said  "  Good  night! "  with  sorrow. 

And  inly  wished  that  I  might  say, 
"  We'll  meet  again  to-morrow." 

I  watched  her  tripi)ing  to  her  home  ; 

I  saw  her  meet  her  mother; 
"Among  a  thousand  maids,"  I  cried, 

"  There  is  not  such  another! " 

I  wandered  to  my  scholar's  home, 
It  lonesome  looked  and  dreary; 

I  took  my  books,  but  couM  not  lead. 
Methought  that  I  was  weary. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  my  bed. 
My  heart  with  sadness  laden; 

I  dreamed  but  of  the  mountain  world, 
And  of  the  mountain  maiden. 

I  saw  her  of  the  ancient  book 
The  pages  turning  slowly ; 

I  saw  her  lovely  crimson  cheek 
And  dark  eyes  drooping  lowly. 

The  dream  was  like  the  day's  delight 
A  life  of  pain's  o'erpaynient : 

I  rose,  and  with  unwonted  care. 
Put  on  my  Sabbath  raiment. 

To  none  I  told  my  secret  thoughts, 

Not  even  to  my  mother. 
Xor  to  the  friend  who,  from  my  youth, 

Was  dear  as  is  a  brother. 

I  got  n)e  to  the  hills  again; 

Tlie  little  Hock  was  feeding: 
.Vnd  there  young  Tibbie  Inglis  sat. 

But  not  the  old  book  reading. 


296 


HOWlTT—llUYT. 


She  sat  as  if  al>sorl)iiiLj  thought 
With  heavy  spells  had  hound  her. 

As  silent  as  lh»'  mossy  crags 
Upon  the  mountains  round  her. 

I  thought  not  of  my  Sahbatli  dress; 

1  thouglit  not  of  my  h^arnlni;: 
I  thouglit  but  of  the  gentle  maid 

Who,  I  beheved,  was  mourning. 

Bonnie  Tibbie  Inglis! 

How  her  beauty  brightened 
Looking  at  nie,  lialf-abashed, 

With  eyes  that   llamed  and  light- 
ened I 

There  was  no  sorrow,  then  I  saw, 
There  was  no  thought  of  sadness: 


0  life!  what  after-joy  hast  thou 
Like  love's  (irst  certain  glailness  ? 

1  sat  me  <lown  among  the  crags. 

I'lHtn  the  mountain  hoarj': 
But  read  not  then  1  lie ancifui  book,— 
Love  was  our  pleasant  story. 

And  then  she  sang  me  songs  again. 

Old  songs  of  love  and  sorrow: 
For  our  sutlicieut  liappiness 

Great  charms  from  v.oe  could  boP 
row. 

Anil  many  hoius  we  lalkcd  in  .joy. 
Yet  too  much  blessed  for  langhler 

I  was  a  liap])y  man  thai  day. 
And  hapijy  ever  after! 


William   Howitt. 

DEPARTURE    OF    THE   SWALLOW. 


And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it  ? 

Wbicli  way  saile.I  it? 
Farewell  bade  it  none? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go:  — 
But  who  doth  hear 
Its  summer  cheer 

As  it  Uitteth  to  and  fro? 


So  the  freed  spirit  flies! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steaN  away 
Like  the  swallou  from  the  skies 

Whither?  wherefon'  doth  It  go' 

'Tin  all  unknown; 

We  feel   al( 

What  a  void  is  left  below. 


Ralph   Hoyt. 


OLD. 

Bv  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
.Sat   a    hoary    i)ilgrim    sadly    nms- 
ing: 
()fi     1     marked    him    sitting     tlu-re 
:tlone, 
All  the  landsca|>e  like  a  i)age  perus- 
imr: 

i'oor.  unknown  — 
liy  tbt'  waysidt!,  un  a  mossy  Ht^iue. 


Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad- 
rinuned  hat ; 
Coat  as  ancient  .ns  the   form  "twar 
foiling: 
Silver    buttons,    (|uene,   ami    crimja 
craval : 
Oaken    staff,    his    feeble    liaml    up 
lioMing  — 
'lliere  be  sat ! 
Buckled   knee  iii)i|  shiM>,  and   liroad 
rinuned  hat. 


MOTT. 


297 


Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there, 

"  I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once 

No  one  sympathizing,  no  one  heed- 

more 

ing— 

On  tho  pleasant  scene  where  I  de- 

Pfone  to  love  him  for  his  thin  gray 

liglited 

hair, 

In  the  careless  happy  days  of  yore. 

And    the    furrows    all    so  mutely 

Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was 

pleading 

blighted 

Age  and  care  — 

To  the  core  — 

Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there. 

I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once 

more! 

It    was    summer,   and    we  went    to 

school  — 

"All   the  picture  now  to  i.ie  how 

Dapper   coimtry    lads,    and    little 

dear ! 

maidens ; 

E'en  tills  gray  old  rock  where  I  am 

Taught  the  motto  of  the  "  Dunce's 

seated 

stool," 

Is  a  jewel  worth  my  journey  here ; 

Its    grave    import  still  my  fancy 

Ah,    that  such  a  scene  must  be 

ladens  — 

completed 

"Here's  a  fool!" 

With  a  tear! 

It   was    summer,  and  we   went    to 

All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear! 

school. 

"Old  stone  school-house!  —  it  is  still 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark 

the  same ! 

oiu-  play, 

There's    the    very    step  I    so    oft 

Some  of  us  were  joyous,  some  sad- 

iliounted ; 

hearted  ; 

There's  the  window  creaking  in  its 

I  remember  well  —  too  well  that  day! 

frame, 

Oftentimes     the    tears    unbidden 

And  the  notches  that  I  cut  and 

started, 

counted 

Would  not  stay, 

Eor  the  game; 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark 

Old  stone  school-house!  —  it  is  still 

our  play. 

the  same ! 

One    sweet    spirit    broke  the  silent 

"  In  the  cottage  yonder,  I  was  born ; 

spell  — 

Long  my  happy  home  —  that  hum- 

Ah, to  me  her  name  was  always 

ble  dwelling; 

heaven ! 

There  the  fields  of  clover,  wheat,  and 

She  besought  him  all  his  grief  to  tell, 

com  — 

{I    was    tlu'u    thirteen,    and     she 

There  tlie  s])ring,  with  limpid  nec- 

eleven,) — 

tar  swelling; 

Isabel ! 

Ah,  forlorn! 

One  sweet   spirit   broke    the  silent 

In  the  cottage  yonder,  I  was  born. 

spell. 

"  Those  two  gateway  sycamores  you 

Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  old  — 

see 

Earthly   hoi)e    no    longer    hath   a 

Then    were    planted    just    so    far 

morrow ; 

as  under 

i'et  why   I   sit   here   thou  shalt   1)e 

That  long  well-pole  from  the  path  to 

told," 

free. 

Then  his  eye  betrayed  a  pearl  of  .sor- 

And  the  wagon  foi)asssafcl\  under: 

'•ow; 

Ninety-three! 

DoMTi  it  rolled. 

Those  two    gateway  sycamores  yo» 

"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  old! 

see. 

298 


UOYT. 


*'  Tlicre's  the  orchard  whore  \vc  usoil 
to  climb 
When  my  mates  ami  I  were  boys 
tof^etber  — 
Thinking    nothing  of   the   flight  of 
time, 
Fearint;  nauglU  but  worlv  and  rainy 
weather; 
Past  its  prinu'! 
There'-  tlie  orchard  where  we  used  to 
climb! 

''There     the     rude,     thrce-oomered 
ehestnut  rails. 
Hound  the  pasture  where  the  flocks 
were  graziufr. 
Where,  so  sly,  1  used  to  watch  for 
f|uails 
In  the  croi)s  of  buckwheat  we  were 
raising  — 

Traj)s  and  trails; 
There  the  rude,  tliree-cornered  chest- 
nut mils. 

•'There's  the  mill  that  groundour  yel- 
low grain  — 
Pond,  and  river,  still  serenely  flow- 
ing; 
Cot,   there   nestling    in    tin-    shaded 
lane 
Where  the  lily  of  my   heart   wa< 
blowing  — 
Mary  .lane! 
There's  thtr  mill  that  groiunl  oiu-  yel- 
low grain! 

'  'i'liere's  the  gate  on  wliieli  I  used  to 
swing  — 
Brook,  and  bridge,  and  barn,  am! 
ol(i  red  stable; 
'iut  alu'^!   no  more  the  mom  shall 
bring 
That  dear  group  around  mv  father's 
table  — 
Taken  wing! 


That  old  tree  can  tell  of  sweet  thingi 
said 
When  ari>uiid   it   Jane  and   I  were 
straying  — 
She  is  deai'. ! 
I  am  fleeing  —  all  I  loveil  have  fled. 

•*  Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  thesky, 
Tracing    silently    life's    chaugefij 
story. 
So  familiar  to  my  dim  old  eye. 

Points  me  to  seven  that  are  now  in 
glory 

There  on  high  — 
Von  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky! 

"  Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we 

trod, 

(;uiile<l  thither  by  an  angel  mother; 

Now  she  sle»'|(s  beneath  its  sacred  sod  ; 

bire    an<l    sistei's,    and     my    little 

brolber 

(ioiie  to  (Jod! 
Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  cliureli  we 
trod. 

'"There  1  heard  of  wisdom's  pit  asaui 
ways  — 
Mless  the  holy  lesson!  —  but.   a!i! 
never 
^liall    I    bear  again   those   songs   of 
jiraise. 
Those    sweet     voices  —  silent     uoa 
forever! 

Peaceful  days  I 
ihere  I  beard   of  wisdom's  pleasant 
ways. 

"  There  my  Mary  blessed  ine  w  itb  her 
ban<l 
When  our  souls  drank  in  the  \\\v,\ 
tial  lilessiu^'. 
Kre  she  battened  to  the  spirit-land  — 
Yonder    turf    her    gentle     boson, 
pressini;; 

Hrokeu  band! 


There's  tiie  gate  on  wliieli    I    used    I"     Tliere  ni\  Marv  l)le>sed  mewilli  her 


swing! 
"I    am    fleeing  —  all    i     loved    have 

fled. 

Yon  green   meadow  was  our  jilaee 
for  playing; 


band. 

"  I  have   I'ume  to  see  thntgr.'ive  once 
more. 
.\nd   till' •-acriMl  jilaee  \vb<'re  we  dp 
lighted, 


HUNT. 


299 


tVhere  we  worshipped,  in  the  days  of 

In  his  eye  another  pearl  of  sorrow ; 

yore, 

Down  it  rolled ! 

Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was 

"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  oldl 

blighted 

To  the  core ; 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 

I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once 

Sat  the  hoary  pilgrim  sadly  mns- 

more. 

ing; 

Still    I    marked    him    sitting    ilu-re 

"  Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old  — 

alone. 

Earthly  hope  no    longer    hath    a 

All    the    landscape    like    a    i)age 

morrow ; 

perusing  — 

Now  why  1  sit  here  thou  hast  been 

Poor,  imknown, 

told," 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


ABOV  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  in- 
crease!) 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream 
of  peace, 

And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in 
his  room. 

Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in 
bloom, 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold: 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Ad- 
hem bold. 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he 
said, 

"What  writest  thou?"  The  vision 
raised  its  head, 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet 
accord. 

Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who 
love  the  Lord." 

"  And,  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou. 
"  Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.  Abou  spoke  more 
low, 

But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "I  pray 
thee,  then. 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow- 
men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.    The 

next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening 

light, 


And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of 

God  had  blessed,  — 
And,  lo!  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all 

the  rest! 


STANZAS  FROM  SONG   OF  THE 
FLOWERS. 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers, 
Born  of  sunny  showers, 
(Think,  wliono'er  you  see  us  what  our 
beauty  saitb;) 
Utterance,  nuUe  and  bright. 
Of  some  unknown  delight. 
We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure  by  our 
simple  breath: 
All  who  see  us  love  us  — 
We  lu'lit  all  places. 
Unto   soirow  we  give  smiles  —  and 
unto  graces,  graces. 

Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 
All,  and  sweetly  voiceless. 
Though  the  March  winds  pipe  to niake 
our  passage  clear; 
Not  a  wbisiier  tells 
A\'here  our  small  seed  dwells 
Nor  is  known  tlienioinent  i^rten  wlum 
our  tip-^  apix'ar. 
We  tlircail  the  enrih  in  silence" 
In  silence  l)iiild  onr  bowers  — 
And  leaf  liy  leaf  in  silence  .'•how.  (ill 
we  laugh  atop,  .vei't  HowersI 


^00 


HUNT. 


See  (and  scorn  all  liuller 
TasU')  how  lltMVfn  loves  color; 
How  great  Nature,  dearly,  joys  in  red 
and  jireen: 
Wliat  sweet  thoiiirhts  she  thinks 
f)f  violets  and  pinks. 
And  a  thousaml  tlushiiiL;  hues  made 
solely  to  be  seen: 
See  her  whitest  lilies 
Chill  the  silver  showers, 
And  what  a  red  month  is  her  rose, 
the  woman  of  the  tlowers. 

Uselessness  divinest. 
Of  a  use  the  finest, 
i'ainteth  us,  the  teachers  of  the  end 
of  use; 
Travellers,  weary-eyed, 
Bless  us,  far  and  wide; 
Unto  sick  anil  prisoned  thoughts  we 
j^ive  sudden  truce: 
Not  a  poor  town  w  indow 
Loves  its  sickliest  plantini^. 
But  its  wall  s]M-;iks  loftier  trulli  than 
Babylonian  vauiuing. 

Sagest  yet  the  uses 
Mixed  with  our  sweet  juices, 
Whettii-r  man  or  May-tly  profit  of  the 
halm; 
As  fair  fingers  healed 
Knights  from  the  olden  field. 
We   hold  cups  of  mightiest  force  to 
give  the  wildest  calm. 
Even  tilt.'  terror,  poison. 
Hath  its  ])lea  for  blooming; 
Life  it  gives  to  n-verent  lips,  though 
deatli  to  the  presuming. 


'i'liiiik  of  all  these  freasiu-es, 
Mal<'hlesH  works  anil  pleasures 
Every    one    a     marvel,     more    than 
thought  can  say; 
Then  think  in  what  bright  show- 
ers 
We  thicken  fields  and  Ixiwers, 
And  with   what  he.ips  of  sweetness 
half  stifle  wanton  .May: 
Think  of   the  mossv  forests 

By  the  b birds  h.iunled. 

\nd  all  those  Ama/oiiian  |>lainsluni) 
lying  as  eucbanled. 


Trees  themselves  are  ours: 
Fruits  aie  born  of  flowers; 
Peacli   and  roughest   nut   were  bio* 
sonjs  in  the  spring; 
The  lusty  bee  knows  well 
The  news,  and  comes  pell-mell. 
And  dances  in  the  gloomy  thicks  witli 
darksome  au'liemiiitr: 
Beneath  the  very  i)urilen 
Of  planet-pressing  oet-an. 
We  wash  oiu"  smiling  cheeics  in  peace 
—  a  thought  for  meek  devotion. 


Who  shall  say  f  fiat  flowers 
Dress  not  heaven's  own  bowers  i' 
\Vlio  its  love,  without  us,  can  fancy — 
or  sweet  floor  ? 
Who  shall  even  dare 
'I'o  say  \M'  sprang  iiol  there  — 
And  came  not  down,  that  Love  niighl 
liriiig  one  piece  of  lii'aven  the 
more ".' 
oil!  pray  believe  fhal  angels 
l''rom  those  blue  dominions 
Brouglit  us  in  their  white  laps  down 
'twixt  their  gol.ien  pinions. 


Tin:  cnissiiorrFii  Axn 

(;i;ki;n  little  vaulfer  in  the  sunny 
gniss. 

('atching  your  heart  nji  at  the  feel  of 
.luiie.  — 

Sole  voice  that's  hi-ard  amid  Ibe  la/y 
noon. 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  sum- 
moning brass: 

\nd  you.  warm  little  lioiisekeeper. 
who  class 

With  those  who  think  (be  candles 
come  too  soon. 

lioving  the  fire,  and  with  your  trick- 
some  tune 

Niek  the  '^\\\A  silent  momenf.s  as  they 
pass! 

O  8weet  and  tiny  cousins  that  be- 
Ioiil;, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  tho 
hearth. 


INOELOW. 


301 


Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both, 
though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  seem 
given  to  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  nat- 
ural song,  — 

In  uoors  and  out,  siunmer  and  winter, 
mirth. 


MA  Y  AND   THE  POETS. 

There  is  May  in  books  forever; 
May  will  part  from  Spenser  never; 
May's  in  Milton,  May's  in  Prior, 
May's  ill  Chaucer,  Tlionisun,  Dyer; 
Clay's  ill  all  the  Italian  books:  — 
.She  has  old  and  modern  nooks, 
Where  she  sleeps  with  nymphs  and 

elves. 
In  happy  jilaces  they  call  shelves, 
And  will  rise  and  dress  your  rooms 
With  a  drapery  thick  with  blooms. 
Come,  ye  rains,  then  if  ye  will, 
May's  at  home,  and  with  m(;  still; 
But  come  rather,  thou,  good  weather, 
Aiid  find  U3  in  the  fieldstogether. 


DEATH. 

Death  is  a  road  our  dearest  friends 

liave  gone ; 
Why  with  such  leaders,  fear  to  say, 

"  Lead  on  ?  " 
Its  gate  repels,   lest  it  too  soon  be 

tried, 
But  turns  in  balm  on  the  immortal 

side. 
Motliers  have  passed  it:  fathers,  chil- 
dren; men 
Whose   like   we  look  not  to  beliold 

again ; 
Women  that  smiled  away  their  lov- 
ing breath ; 
Soft  is  the  travelling  on  the  road  to 

death ! 
But  guilt  has  passed  it  ?  men  not  fit  to 

die? 
Oh,  hush  —  for  lie  that  made  us  all 

is  by! 
Human  we're  all  —  all  men,  all  born 

of  mot  hers ; 
All  our  own  selves  in  the  worn-out 

shajie  of  otliers; 
Our  used,  and  oli,  be  sure,  not  to  bo 

iW-used  brothers! 


Jean   Ingelow. 


SONGS  OF  SEVEN. 


SEVEN   TIMES   ONE.  —  EXULTATION. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven; 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times  "  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done: 
The  lambs  ]ilay  always,  they  know  no  better; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

O  moon!  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low; 
You  were  i)rigbt!  ali,  IniLcht!  but  yoiu"  light  is  failing,' 

You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 


302  INQBLaW. 


You  rnoon,  liavf  you  doiu'  souu-tliing  wrong  in  heaven 

That  (Jod  lias  liiddi'ii  your  face? 
I  hojM'  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven. 

And  shine  ajr«iin  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow. 

You've  jHjwdered  your  lei^s  with  ijold! 
O  brave  marsh  uiaryhuds,  ri<h  and  yellow, 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold  I 

O  columbine,  open  yoiu*  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell? 

0  cuckoopiut,  toil  uie  the  purjile  clajii^er 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  hell! 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones  in  it; 
I  will  not  steal  them  away; 

1  am  old!  you  may  tru.-i  inc.  linuct,  linnet,—: 

1  am  seven  limes  one  to-<lay. 

SEVEN   TIMES  TAVO.  —  UOMANCK. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  rin.u,  ring  out  your  changes 

How  many  soever  they  be. 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as  he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet  binls'  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  l)y  swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys. 
And  bells  have  forL,'otteu  their  old  art  of  telling 

The  fortun<'  of  futtne  days. 

"Turn  again,  tuni  again,"  once  they  rang  cheerily, 

Whil"  a  boy  listened  alone; 
Made  his  heart  yearn  ai,'ain,  nnising  so  wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells!  I  forgive  you;  your  gooil  ilays  are  over, 

Am!  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be; 
No  listeninu,  no  ion;,'in.;  shall  aught,  aui;ht  liiseover 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

The  foxglove  shoot*  out  of  the  green  matted  heather 

Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow; 
She  was  idle,  ami  slept  till  the  smishiny  weather: 

Oh!  children  take  Ion;;  to  grow. 

I  wish  and  I  wish  that  (he  spring  woidd  go  faster, 

Nor  lotm  summer  bide  ho  late; 
An<l  I  roidd  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and  aster, 

Kor  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 

I  wait  for  the  day  when  ilear  hearts  shall  discover, 

While  dear  hands  .iie  l.iid  on  my  head: 
'  The  child  in  a  woman,  (be  IxHik  may  close  over, 
For  all  ihu  lessons  are  said." 


INGE  LOW.  303 


I  wait  for  my  story, —  the  birds  cannot  sing  it, 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  oh,  bring  it! 

Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 

SEVEN  TIMES  THREE.  —  LOVE. 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 
Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate; 
"  Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover,— 
Hush,  nightingale,  hush!    O  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near. 
For  my  love  he  is  late ! 

"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree. 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer: 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  grow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"  You  night^moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep; 
You  glowworms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste. 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste. 
And  my  love  lieth  deep, — 

"  Too  deep  for  swift  telling;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

I've  coimed  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white  clover, 
Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took  flight; 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

SEVEN  TIMES   FOUK.  —  MATERNITY. 

Heigh-ho!  daisies  and  buttercups! 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall! 
When  tlie  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in  the  grasses. 

And  dance  w  ith  the  cuckoo-buils  slender  and  small! 
Here's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here's  mother's  own  lasses, 

Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh-ho!  daisies  and  buttercups; 

Mother  sliall  thread  tJiem  a  daisy  chain; 
Sing  them  a  song  of  tlie  pn^tty  hedge-sparrow, 

That  loved  lier  brown  litt!(r()nes.  loved  them  full  fain; 
Sing,  "Heart,  thou  art  wide  thougli  tlie  Inmse  be  but  narrow,' 

Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 


304  INOELOW. 

Ileijili-liul  diiisit's  and  Initlprcups! 

Sweet  waguinji  cowslips,  they  bond  and  they  how; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  oC4>aii  waters. 

And  liaply  one  musinu  lioth  stand  ai  her  prow. 
O  hctnny  hrown  sons,  and  O  sweet  litth'  lUiugliters, 

Maybe  he  tliinks  of  you  now. 

Ileifilidio!  daisies  and  hiitteronps! 

Fair  yellow  datfodils,  stately  and  tall! 
A  siinsliiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure, 

And  irosh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow  and  thrall! 
Send  tlown  on  their  pleasuri'  smiles  passing  its  measure, 

God  that  is  over  us  all ! 

SEVEN   TIMES   FIVE.  —  WIDOWIIOOD. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 

Before  I  am  well  awake; 
"Let  me  bleed!     O  let  me  alono. 

Since  I  must  not  break  I  " 

For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sleep 
With  a  stone  at  fool  and  at  head: 

0  sleepless  (iod,  forever  keep, 
Keep  lx)th  living  ant!  dead! 

1  lift  mine  eyes,  and  what  to  see 

I  Jut  a  world  happy  and  fair! 
1  have  not  wished  it  to  mourn  with  me, 
Comfort  is  not  there. 

Oh,  what  aiiear  but  goldi-u  lirooins, 

Hut  a  waste  of  reedy  rillsl 
Oh,  what  afar  but  the  line  glooms 

On  the  rare  l)lue  hills! 

I  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlor«», — 

H(»w  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 
Oil,  to  jueet  thee,  my  love,  once  more' 

0  my  heart,  my  heart ! 

No  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  .see! 

Oh,  that  an  echo  might  wake 
And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  ix» 

Kre  my  heart-strings  l)reakl 

I  should  know  it  how  faint  soe'er, 

And  with  anu'id  voices  blent; 
Oh,  once  to  feel  thy  spirit  anear; 

1  could  be  content ! 

Or  once  between  the  gates  of  irolil, 

While  an  enterint;  angel  IpkI, 
But  once, —  tliee  sitting  to  behold 


On  the  hilLs  of  Gixl 


f 


INGE  LOW.  8U5 


SEVEN  TIMES  SIX.  —  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  WRtch,  and  then  to  lose: 
To  see  my  bright  ones  diKappear, 

Drawn  up  Hke  morning  dews, — 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose: 
This  have  1  done  when  God  drew  near 

Among  his  owti  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed, 

Will  let  no  longer  smart, — 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

This  while  thou  didst  I  smiled, 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said> 

"  Mother,  give  me  tliy  child." 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind! 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 
But  wlien  a  man  like  grace  would  find. 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears, — 
Ofond,  O  fool,  and  blind! 

God  guards  in  happier  spheres; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 
Thy  mother's  tcnderest  words  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  shv?  views; 
Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear. 

She  doth  in  naught  accuse; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  muse,  to  rear, 

To  love, —  and  then  to  lose. 


SEVEN  TIMES   SEVEN.  —  LONGING   FOR  HOME. 

A  song  of  a  boat :  — 

There  was  once  a  ])oat  on  a  billow: 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like  snow, 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow, 

And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtsying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote. 

She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam. 

And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear-loved  home; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  alioiit  the  boat, 

And  my  dreams  upon  the  i)illow. 


806  INGE  LOW. 


I  pray  you  hoar  my  song  of  a  boat 

For  it  is  but  short:  — 
My  boat  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  1  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore,  • 

On  the  open  tlesolato  sea. 
And  1  think  hf  sailed  to  thf  heavenly  shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 
Ah  me  I 

A  song  of  a  nest :  — 

There  was  on<'e  a  nest  in  a  hollow: 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  pressed. 
Soft  and  warm  and  t'ldl  to  the  i)riin  — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 

With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long :  — 
You  shall  nt'vt  r  light  in  a  summer  quest 

The  hushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  ncjr  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

I  liad  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah,  ha]ii)y,  liappy  II 
Kiglit  dearly  I  l<ned  them;  hut  when  they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  llieir  wings  to  .My  — 
Oh.  one  after  one.  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heaveidy  blue. 
To  the  blotter  counlr)',  tiie  upper  day. 

And  —  I  wish  1  was  going  too. 

I  j>ray  yoti  what  is  the  ne.st  to  me. 

My  enii>ty  nest  ? 
And  what  is  tlie  shore  where  I  stoo*!  to  see 

•My  itojif  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  ani-hor  yet, 
Though  my  gnuil  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  eall  thai  home  where  my  nest  w;i.s  set, 

Now  all  its  lioix-  halh  failed  '.' 

Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 

.\nd  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be: 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughUi  are  sonl^ 

The  only  home  for  nn — 

Ah  me  I 


INGE  LOW. 


307 


LIKE  A  LAVEROCK  IN  THE  LIFT. 

It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  it's  we  two  lor  aye, 
All  the  world  and  we  two,  and  Heaven  be  our  stay. 
Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride! 
All  the  world  was  Adam  once,  with  Eve  by  his  side. 

What's  the  world,  my  lass,  my  love!  —  what  can  it  do? 
I  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine;  life  is  sweet  and  new. 
If  the  world  have  missed  the  mark,  let  it  stand  by. 
For  we  two  have  gotten  leave,  and  once  more  we'll  try. 

Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride! 
It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  happy  side  by  side. 
Take  a  kiss  from  me,  thy  man,  now  the  song  begins: 
"  All  is  made  afresh  for  us,  and  the  brave  heart  wins." 

When  the  darker  days  come,  and  no  sun  will  shine, 
Thou  shalt  dry  my  tears,  lass,  and  I'll  dry  thine. 
It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  while  the  world's  away, 
Sitting  by  the  golden  sheaves  on  our  wedding-day. 


THE  LONG    WHITE  SEAM. 


As  I  came  round  the  harbor  buoy. 

The  lights  began  to  gleam. 
No    wave    the     land-locked     water 
stirred, 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream; 
And  I  marked   uiy  love  by  candle- 
Ught 

Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 
It's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear. 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea. 
It's  reef  and  furl,  and  haul  the  line. 

Set  sail  and  think  of  thee. 

I  climbed  to  reach  her  cottage  door ; 

Oil,  sweetly  my  love  sings! 
Like  a  shaft  of  light  her  voice  breaks 
forth. 

My  soul  to  meet  it  springs, 
A.»th('  shining  water  leaped  of  old. 

When  stirred  by  angel  wings. 


Aye  longing  to  list  anew, 

Awake  and  in  my  dream. 
Hut  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 

Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

Fair    fall    the    lights,    the     hari)(>i 
lights. 
That  brought  me  in  to  thee, 
And   peace  drop  down  on  that  lov. 
roof 
For  the  sight  that  I  did  see. 
And  the  voice,  my  dear,  that  rang  su 
clear 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 
For  oh,   for   oh,   with    brows    bent 
low 
By  the  candle's  flickering  gleam. 
Her    wedding -gown     it     was     she 
wrought. 
Sewing  the  long  white  seam. 


308 


ju/issoy. 


Samuel  Johnson. 


[From  Vanity  of  Human  )\'ishes.] 
EXVIAULE  AOE. 

Bur  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  tcinperate 

prime, 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn 

or  crime; 
An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived 

decay, 
And  ijliiles  in  modest  innocence  away ; 
Whose  peaceful  day,  henevolence  en- 

deai-s. 
Whose     night    congratulating    con- 
science cheers; 
The  general  favorite  as  the  general 

friend: 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish 

its  end  ? 


[From  Vanity  of  Human  Wiahea.'] 
WISDOM'S  PRA  YEli. 

Whi;rk  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear 

their  t)l)jccts  find  ? 
Must  dull  susjHMise  corrupt  the  stag- 
nant mind  '? 
Must  lu'lpli'ss  man.  in  ignorance  se- 

diit.-, 
Koll  darkling  down  the  lornMit  of  his 

fate  ? 
Must   no   dislikt!    alarm,    no  wisln-s 

rise  • 
N'o  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  tin- 

skies  ? 
Iii"|iiitcr,  <'<'iisf;  jM'titions  yet  n'main, 
Wliii'li  Ili-avm  may   luar,  nor  deem 

religion  vain. 
Still  raise  for  gocxl    the  supplicating 

VollT. 

Hut  leavi-  If)  lli'.iven  the  me4isure  and 

the  choice, 
Safe  In  His  jxiwer,  whose  eyes  discern 

afar 
riic    sfcn-i    amhnsh    of  a   specious 

prayer: 
Implon-  IJis.kiii.  ill  1 1  is  decisions  rest, 
Heeure  wli.iie'er   He  gives.  He  gives 

the  best. 


Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  pres- 
ence tires. 

And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  as- 
pires. 

Pour  forth  thy  fervors  for  a  heaithful 
mind. 

Obedient  i>assions,  and  a  will  re- 
signed : 

For  love,  which  scarce  eolleetive  man 
can  (ill; 

For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  iraiis- 
muled  ill : 

For  faith,  that,  panling  for  a  happier 
.seat , 

Counts  death,  kind  Nature's  signal  of 
retreat:    • 

These  goods  ff>r  man  the  laws  of 
Ileavcu  ordain. 

These  goods  He  grants,  who  grants 
the  power  to  i;ain  ; 

With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms 
the  mind, 

And  makes  the  happiness  she  does 
not  lind. 


[From  Viinil;/  of  lliimau  IVishi's.] 
(HAIH.KS    Ml. 

Ox   what    foiimlaiioii    stands     the 

warrior's  piiile. 
How     iu^t     his    liojx'.s,    i«'t    Swedish 

Cliarl.'s  dc.i.je: 
A  frame  of  adainaiil,  a  soul  of  fire, 
.No  dangers  fright  iiini.  ami  no  labors 

tin*; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide 

tlomain, 
Uncon(|uered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of 

|iain. 
No  joys  to  him  jiacilic  sceptres  yield. 
War  sounds  tin-  trumn,  he  ru-shes  (c 

the  field; 
Htdiold  surrounding  kings  llieir  pow 

ers  coinliiiie. 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign; 
Peace  courts  his  haiiii.    but   sjiieads 

bi-r  c|i;iriiis  jn  \  .ijn  ; 
"Think   not  hill;;  /aiiied."  he  cries. 

"  till  naught  remain, 


JON  8  ON. 


309 


On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  stand- 
ards fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar 

sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
yVnd  nations  on  his  eye  suspended, 

wait; 
Stem    Famine   guards    the    solitary 

coast 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of 

frost ; 
He  comes,    nor    want  nor  cold  his 

course  delay; 
Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  Pultowa's 

day! 
Tlie    vanquished     hero    leaves    his 

broken  bands, 
And  shows  his   miseries   in  distant 

lauds; 
Condennied    a    needy  suppliant    to 

wait, 
iVhile  ladies  interpose  and  slaves  de- 
bate. 
iJut  did  not  Chance  at  length  her 

error  mend '? 
Did  no   subverted  empire  mark  his 

end  ? 
Did  rival   monarchs  give    the  fatal 

wouml, 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the 

gi'ound  ? 
His  fall   was  destined   to    a  I)arren 

strand, 
A    r)etty    fortress    and    a    dubious 

hand ; 
He  left  a  name   at  which  the  world 

grew  i)ale, 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale. 


{From  Lonr'on.] 
THE  FATE   OF  POVERTY. 

By  numbers  here  from  shame  oi 

censm-e  free. 
All  crimes  are  safe  but  hated  poverty. 
Tliis,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues. 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarlim 

muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tattered  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  laboi'i 

for  a  joke ; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers 

gaze,  [ways. 

Anil  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand 
Of   all    the  griefs    that    harass  the 

distressed, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the 

generous  heart. 
Than    when    a    blockhead's    insult 

points  the  dart. 
Has  Heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  th« 

poor. 
No  pathless  waste,  or  nndiscovereJ 

shore  ? 
No  secret   island    in  the  boundless 

main  ? 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaimed  bj 

Spain  ? 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  ex- 
plore. 
And  bear  Oppression's  insolence  no 

more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere 

confessed. 
Slow   hisks  wourn,  by  povekty 

IJEPIiESSEl). 


Ben  Jonson. 


TO  CELIA. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes. 

And  I  will  i)l('(lii('  Willi  mine: 
Or  leave  a  kis^  but  in  tlie  cu]! 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  tiir.t    from  the  soul  doth 
rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  niigbt  1  of  .love's  nectar  sup. 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  ,i  liojie  that  there 

It  could  111)1  withtTcd  be; 
But  tliou  tluMroii  didst  only  breathe 

And  senfst  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  J 
swear. 

Not  of  itseh'  l)ut  theel 


aio 


KEATS. 


HYMS    TO  CYNTIII.l. 

Qi'EKN  and  huntrpss,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  hiid  to  sleep, 

Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
hiaie  in  wunted  manner  keep: 

Hesperus  entreats  tliy  Hglit, 

Ijoddess,  excellently  bright! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose: 
Cynthia's  shininu  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  ilay  did  close: 
I  Hess  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
(ioddess,  excellently  bright! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart. 
And  thy  crystal  shining  (piiver: 

Give  unto  the  Hying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  iiow  short  soever; 

Thou  tiiat  niak'st  a  day  of  night, 

Goddess,  excellently  bright! 


THE  SWEET  NEGLECT. 

Sri  I.I,  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  j'ou  were  going  to  a  feast: 

Si  ill  to  be  powdered,  still  perf  tuned: 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though    art's    hid    causes    are    not 

found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  soimd. 

(iive  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 
That  makes  simjilicity  a  grace; 
liobes  loosely  (lowing,  hair  as  free: 
Such  sweet  lieglcct  more  takcth  me. 


Than  all  the  ailult cries  of  art, 
That  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  m) 
lieart. 


E  PITA  PIT. 

Woii.D'sT  tliou  hear  what  man  can 

say 
In  a  little?  —  reader,  stay! 
Underneath  this  stone  dotli  He 
As  much  beauty  as  could  die,— 
Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  virtm-  than  doth  live. 
If  at  all  she  had  a  fault. 
Leave  it  burieil  in  this  vault. 
One  name  was  l-llizabeth, — 
The  other,  let  it  sleep  witti  death. 
Fitter  where  it  drt^d  to  tell. 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell! 


(;<)()  I  J    LIFE,  LOXU   LIFE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  dntli  make  man  better  !»  ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hur- 
dled year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  la.st,  dry.  bald,  and 
sere : 
.\  lily  of  a  day 
Is  tainr  far  in  May, 
All  bough  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 
1 1  \\as  I  he  plan  I  and  (lower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions,  we  just  beuuties 

see; 
And  in  short  mcasurca,  life  may  ju-r 
feet  be. 


John    Keats. 


Tin:  Ti:i:i:oi:  or  in:  irii. 


Wiii.N  I  hftvi!  fears  that  I  may  coaM- 

to  Ih! 
I'.ifore  my  pen  has  gleaned  my  dcm- 

ing  liniin. 


WIkii    1    Ix'bol.l.    upon    the    night's 

starred  face. 
Huge,  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  ro- 

man<'e. 


Iltfori'  higli-i>il<d  books,  in  cbaraei      And   (bink    (hat    I  m:iy  ifver  live  to 


Hold     like     rich    garners     the    full- 
ripuued  gruiu; 


(r;icc 
Their  shadowx.  with  the  magic  ham' 
of  Chance; 


KEATS 


311 


And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an 

hour ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee 

more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  fairy  power 
Of  unreflecting  love, —  then  on  the 

^hore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and 

think 
Till  love  and  fame  to  nothingness 

do  sink. 


SONNET  COMPOSED  ON  LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

Bright  Star!  would  I  were  steadfast 
as  thou  art, — 

Not  in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the 
night, 

And  watching,  with  eternal  lids 
apart, 

Like  nature's  patient,  sleepless  ei-e- 
mite. 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike 
task 

Of  piu-e  ablution,  roimd  earth's  hu- 
man sliores, 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the 
moors :  — 

No,  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  un- 
changeable. 

Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripen- 
ing breast, 

To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell. 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest; 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken 
breath. 

And  90  live  ever, —  or  else  swoon  to 
death. 


ODE  ON  THE  POETS. 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth 
\'o  have  left  your  souls  on  cartlil 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wonder- 

ous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thunderous; 


With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneatli  large  bluebells  tented, 
^\'here  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
A  nd  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 
But  divine  melodious  truth; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying. 
Never  slumbered,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 
What    doth    strengthen    and    what 

maim :  — 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  eveiy  day. 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  I 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  newl 


FANCY. 


EvKi!  let  the  fancy  roam; 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home; 
At  a  tom'h  sweet  plciisurc  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 
Then  let  winged  fancy  wander 
Through  the  thought  still  spread  be- 
yond her; 
Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door,— 
She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 
()  swe(>t  fancy  I  let  her  loose! 
Siunmer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  "enjoying  of  the  spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming. 
Autuuui's  reil-lipped  fruitage  too, 
Blushin;:  throush  the  mist  and  dew. 


S12 


KEATfi. 


•'loys  with  tastinc;.     W}\al  «lo  then  ? 
Sit  th«'i'  by  tilt'  ingl<',  when 
'I'lu'  sear  faggot  blazes  bright. 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 
\Vhen  the  soiuitlless  earth  is  innlTled, 
/Ami  the  eaked  snow  is  shiillled 
Kroiii  the  pldugliboy's  heavy  shoon; 
Wlirii  the  Nigiit  (lulh  meet  the  Xoon 
III  a  dark  eoiispiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
Sit  thei-  there,  and  send  abroad, 
AVith  a  mind  self-o  vera  Wed,         [her. 
Faney,    liigh-commissioned  :  —  send 
Sht!  lias  vassals  to  .it tend  her; 
She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 
Heauties  that  tin-  earth  hath  lost; 
She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 
All  delights  of  snninier  weather; 
.Ml  the  bnds  and  bells  of  May, 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  siiray; 
All  the  lieape(|  autumn's  wealtii; 
With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth; 
.She  will  mix  tlu-se  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  eup. 
And  thou  shalt  (jualf  it, —  thou  shalt 

hear 
Distant  liarvest-oarnls  clear, — 
Kustlf  of  the  reaped  corn; 
Sweet  birds  antlit-ming  the  morn; 
.Vnd,  in  the  same  moment, —  hark! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, — 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  eaw, 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  slialt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  ilaisy  and  the  marigold; 
White-plumed  lilic-.,  and  tlie  first 
Hedge-grown    primroM-     that     hath 

burst ; 
.sh.uled  hyacinth,  alway 
.Sap|)hire  cpieen  of  the  mid-May; 
An<i  every  le.if,  and  every  (lower 
I'earled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Tlion  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
-Mejigre  from  its  celled  sleej.; 
At.  !  the  snake,  all  winter-tbiu, 
('(1st  on  .Himny  bank  its  skin; 
Freckled  nesl-ei^i^s  tlioU  shall  see 
Hatcjiing  in  the  hawthorn  tree. 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
t^uiel  on  her  mossy  i\rn\ ; 
Tlien  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-|il\e  casts  Us  swarm: 
Acorn.s  ripe  down-paltering 
WIiUm  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 


[Frnm   Fnifi/mi'ni.'] 
HE  A  U  TY  -S   IM.MOlll'ALITY. 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 
Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will 

keep 
A  bower  (piiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and 

(pjiet  breathing. 
Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we 

wreathing 
A  flowery  l)and   to  hind   us   to   the 

eai-lh, 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman 

dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  tli<'  nnlieallhy  and  o'er-<lark- 

ened  ways 
Made  for  our  searching:  yes,  in  sjiite 

of  all. 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  awav 

tlu'  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.    .Su<'h  the  sun, 

the  moon. 
Trees   old   and    young,    sprouting   a 

shady  boon  |dils 

For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  dalfo- 
With   the  green   world   they  live   in; 

and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert 

make 
'dainst  the  hot  season;  the  mid-fon'sl 

brake, 
Kicli  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk- 
rose  blooms: 
.\nd  such  loo  is  the  grandeur  of  tin* 

dooms 
W'y.  have   imagined    for   the    mighty 

di-ail: 
All  lovely  tales  I  hat  we  have  heard  or 

read : 
.Vn    endless    fiMintain    of    immortal 

drink. 
Pouring  unio  us  from   the  lnavcn's 

blink. 


OltK   TO  A  MCimSdALK. 

.Mv  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  nmnb- 
nesN  pains 
.My  sense,  us  though  of  hemlock  1 
had  drnidv, 


KEATS. 


313 


Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the 
d.-ains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards 
had  simk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy 
lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happi- 
ness,— 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of 
the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Cf  bcechen  green,  and  shadows  num- 
berless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated 
ease. 

Oh,  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that 
hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age   in  the    deep- 
delved  eaith. 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  countiy- 
green, 
Dance,  and  Proven<jal  song,  and 
sunburnt  mirth! 
Oh,  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm 
South! 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Ilip- 

pocrene. 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at 
the  brim. 
And  purjjle-stained  mouth; 
That  1  might  drink,  and  leave  the 
world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the 
forest  dim! 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite 
forget 
What  tliou  among  the  leaves  hast 
never  known, 
The  weariness,  th(>  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  moii  sit  and  hear  each 
other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last 
gray  liairs, 
^Vller«'  youth  grows  pale,  and  spec- 
tre-thin, and  liies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  br  full  of 
sorrow 
And  Icadcn-eyed  des])airs; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lus- 
trous oyes. 
Or  new  L()\  ;■  pine  at  them  l)cyond 
to-morrow. 


Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 
iS'ot  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his 
pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  poesy, 
Though  the  dull   brain  perplexes 
and  retards: 
Already   with    thee!    tender    is    the 
night. 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on 
her  throne,  [f^js; 

Clastered  around  by  all  her  starry 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the 
breezes  blown 
Through     verdurous    glooms    and 
winding  mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my 
feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon 
the  boughs, 
But,   in  embalmed  darkness,  guess 
each  sweet 
AVherewith  the  seasonable  month 
endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit- 
tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral 

eglantine; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in 
it-avis; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy 
wine. 
The  munnurous  haunt  of  flies  on 
summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen;  and  for  many  a 
time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  ease- 
ful Death, 
Called  him   soft   names   in   many  a 
mused  rhyme. 
To   take    into    the    air    my  ouiet 
breath;  |<lip. 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to 
To  c<ase  upon  the  midnight  with 

no  pain, 
Wiiilc  tiiou  art  poiuing  forth  thy 
soul  abroad 
In  such  an  i-c-itasy! 
Still  wouklst  thou  sing,  and  1  have 
ears  in  vain. — 
To  thy  hiyh  leipiiem  become  a 8od 


314 


KEBLE. 


Tliou  wast  not  honi  for  dcatli,  im- 
mortal bird  I 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee 
down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night 
was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and 
clown : 
Perhaps    the     self-same    song    that 
found  a  path 
Through    the  sad  heart  of   Kulli, 

when  sick  for  home 
Slic  stood  in  tears  auud  the  alien 
corn ; 
The  same  that  oft -times  hath 
Charmed   magic  casements,  oiiening 
on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  for- 
lorn. 

Forlorn!  the  very  wonl  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my 
sole  self! 
Adieu!    the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so 
well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving 
elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem 
fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the 

still  stream. 
Up    the    hill-side;    and    now   'tis 
burietl  deej) 
In  the  next  valley-glades: 


Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled  is  tiiat  music:  —  do  1  wake  or 
sleep  i* . 


OK  RKADISG  (  UAf'MAN'S  HO.VEJi. 

MrcH  have  1  travelled  in  the  realms 
of  gold. 
And  many  goodly  states  and  king- 
doms seen; 
Kound  many  western  islands  have 
1  i)een 
\Vlii<h  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  1  been 
told 
That  ileei>-browed  Ilomer  ruled  as 

his  demesne: 
Vet    dill    I    never  breathe   its  pure 
seren*' 
Till  1  heard  ('ha]>man  speak  out  loud 

and  i)old: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the 
skies 
When  a  new  jilanet  swims  into  bis 
k«'u; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  »'agle 
eye.s 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific, —  and  all 
his  men 
Looked   at  each   other  with  a   wiKl 
sunnise, — 
.Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Daric^i 


John   Keble. 

wnRRK  /s  THY  j-:ir<>/u:ji  iiirsr 


WiiKiJK  Is  thy  favorril  liaMiit.  eter- 
nal voice. 
The  n.'gioii  of  thy  choice. 
Where  imdisturbed  by  sin  ami  earth, 
the  sold 
Owns  thy  entire  control  V 
'Tis  on  the  mountain's  sununit  dark 
and    high. 
When  storms  are  hurrying  by: 
'Tis  'mid  ibe  sirrmg  foundations  of 
the  earth. 
Where  torniits  have  their  birth. 


No  sounds  of   worldlv  toil  ascending 
there. 
Mar  the  full  l)urst  of  prayer; 
I. me  Natiue  feels  that  she  may  free- 
ly brealb.-. 
.\nd  roiuxl  Us  :ind  beneath 
Are  lieiird  her  sacred   tones:   tin-   fit- 
ful Mwei'i) 
Of  winds  across  the  sleep. 
Through   wiiliered  bents  —  lomantifl 
note  ami  clear, 
.Miet  for  a  iieniiii'N  ear,—  - 


KEBLE. 


315 


The    wheeling    kite's   wild    solitary 
cry, 
And  scarcely  heard  so  high, 
The  dashing  waters  when  the  air  is 
still. 
From  many  a  torrent  rill 
That    winds    unseen    beneath    the 
shaggy  fell. 
Tracked  by  the  blue  mist  well : 
Such  sounds  as  make  deep  silence  in 
the  heart, 
For  Thought  to  do  her  part. 

'Tis  then  we  hear  the  voice  of  God 
within. 
Pleading  with  care  and  sin; 
"  Child  of  my  love !  how  have  I  wear- 
ied thee  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  err  from  me  ? 
Have  I  not  brought  thee  from  the 
house  of  slaves ; 
Parted  the  drowning  waves. 
And  sent  my  saints  before  thee  in 
the  way, 
Lest     thou     should'st     faint     or 
stray  ? 

'•  What  was  the  promise  made  to  thee 
alone  ? 
Art  thou  the  excepted  one  ? 
An   heir  of  glory  without  grief  or 
pain  ? 
O  vision  false  and  vain ! 
There    lies    thy    cross;    beneath    it 
meekly  bow. 
It  fits  thy  stature  now: 
Who  scornful  pass  it  with  averted 
eye, 
'Twill  crush  them  by  and  by. 

"  Raise  thy  repining  eyes,  and  take 
true  measure 
Of  thine  eternal  treasure; 
The  father  of  thy  Lord  can  gnidge 
thee  nought. 
The  world  for  thee  was  bought. 
And  as  this  landscape  broad  — earth, 
sea,  and  sky, — 
All  centres  in  thiut-  eye, 
So  all   God   does   if    rightly    under- 
stood, 
Shall  work  thy  final  good." 


WHY  SHOULD    WE   FAINT  AND 
FEAR   TO  LIVE  ALONE? 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to 
live  alone, 
Since    all    alone,   so    heaven    has 
willed,  we  die  ? 
Not  even   the   tenderest  heart,  and 
next  oiu:  owti, 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we 
smile  and  sigh. 

Each  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or 
woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range 
apart. 
Our  eyes  see  all  around  in  gloom  or 
glow  — 
Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  borrowed 
from  the  heart. 

And  well  it  is  for  as  our  God  should 
feel 
Alone  our  secret  throbbings :  so  our 
prayer 
May  readier  spring  to  heaven,  nor 
spend  its  zeal 
On  cloud-born  idols  of  this  lower 
air. 

For  if  one  heart  in  perfect  sympathy 
Beat  with  another,  answering  love 
for  love, 
Weak  mortals  all  entranced  on  earth 
would  lie; 
Xor  listen  for  those  purer  strains 
above. 

Or  what  if  heaven  for  once  its  search- 
ing light  [ail 
Lent  to  some  partial  eye.  disclosiii!: 
The  lude  bad  thoughts,  that  in  our 
bosom's  night 
Wander  at  large,  nor  heed  Love's 
gentle  thrall  ? 

Who  would  not  shun  the  dreary  un- 
couth i>]act'  ? 
As  if,  fond  leaning  where  her  in- 
fant slept, 
A  mother's  arm  a  serpent  should  tin 
brace: 
So   miu'lit  we  friendless  live,  and 
die  unwept. 


316 


KEBLB. 


'Iheu  keep  the  softening  veil  in  mer- 
cy drawn, 
Thou  who  ranst  love  us,  tliough 
thou  rt/ad  us  true. 
As  on  tiio  bosom  of  the  aerial  lawn 
Melts  iu  dim  haze  eacli  coarse  un- 
gentle hue. 

So  too  may  soothing  hope  thy  leave 
enjoy 
Sweet    visions    of    long    severed 
hearts  to  frame : 
Though  absence  may  impair,  or  cares 
annoy, 
Some  constant  mind,  may  draw  us 
still  the  same. 


SIXCE  ALL   TlLiT  /.V  SOT  HEAVES 
Ml  ST  FADE. 

Sim  !•:  all  that  is  not  heaven  must 

fade. 
Li;:iit  !><•  tile  hand  of  ruin  laid 

V\»)n  tlie  home  I  love: 
With  lulliui,'  spell  let  soft  decay 
Steal  on.  and  spare  the  giant  sway, 

The  crash  of  tower  and  grove. 

Far  opening  down   some   woodland 

deep 
III  ilhir  own  (|ui(^t  dale  slioulil  sle«'p 

The  relies  dear  to  tlioiiglit, 
AikI  wild-flower  wreaths  from  side  to 

sirle 
'iliejr  waving  trai-ery  hang,  (o  hide 
Wliat  ruthless  lime  has  wrought. 

Siieli     lire    the     visions    green     and 

sweet 
That  o'er  the  wistful  fancy  lleet 

111  Asiii's  sea-Iikf  plain, 
Wlieri'    slowly,    round    his    Isles    of 

sand, 
Kuphrati's  throiiudi  the  lonely  land 
Wlncls  toward  the  pearly  main. 

Miimher  is  there,  but  not  of  rest; 
There  her  forlorn  and  weary  nest 

The  fiiiiiisheil  hawk  has  found, 
Tie-  wild  d..u'  hoNNls  .It  f:dl  of  night. 
The  m-riK-nt's  niMlinu  eoiN  afTrlght 

The  traveller  on  his  rotuul. 


^^^lat  shapeless  fonn,  half   lost  oji 

high, 
Half  seen  against  the  evening  sky. 

Seems  like  a  ghost  to  glide. 
And  watch  from  Uabel  s  crumbling 

heap. 
Where  in  her  shadow,  fast  asleep. 
Lies  fallen  imperial  jiride  ? 

With  half-elosed  eye  a  lion  there 
Is  basking  in  his  noontide  lair 

Or  prowls  in  twilight  gloom. 
The  golden  city's  king  he  seems. 
Such  as  in  old  prophetic  dreams 

Sprang  from  rough  ocean's  womb. 

But  where  are  now  his  eagle  wings, 
That  sheltered  erst  ji  thousand  kings, 

Hiding  the  glorious  sky 
From  half  the  nations,  till  they  own 
No  holier  name,  no  mightier  tliione  f 

That  vision  is  gone  by. 

Quenched  is  the  golden  statue's  niy. 
The    breath   of    heaven    has    bloun 
away 
What  toiling  earth  had  piled. 
Scattering    wi.se    heart    and     crufly 

hand. 
As  bree/es  strew  on  ocean's  sand. 
The  fabrics  of  a  »liil<l. 

Divided  thence  through  every  age 
Thy  rebels.  Lord,  their  warfare  wage, 

.\nd  hoarse  and  jarring  all 
Moiiiil  u|>  ilii'ir  heaveii-ii.-<sailing  cries 
To  thy  liriudil  watchman  in  the  .skies 

From  Haliel's  shattered  wall. 

Thrice    only     sime,     with     blended 

might 
The  nations  on  that  haiiuhty  height 

Have  met  to  scale  the  heaven: 
Thrii-e  only  ini^iit  a  seraph's  look 
.\  liniment's  shade  of  sadness  brook; 

Such  power  to  guill  was  given. 

Xow   the   fierce    IJenr   and    Leopard 

keen 
.\re  pi-ri'-hed  as  fliey  ne'er  had  been, 

<  )l>!i\  ion  is  their  home: 
.Vniliitioii's  holdfst  dream  and  last 
Mnsl  melt  iH-foif  the  <larion  Jilast 

That  Bounds  the  dirge  of  Itome. 


KEMBLE. 


317 


Heroes  and  kings,  obey  the  charm, 
Withdraw  the  proud    high-reaching 
arm; 
There  is  an  oath  on  high, 
That  ne'er  on  brow  of  mortal  birth 
Shall    blend    again    the    crowns    of 
earth. 
Nor  in  according  cry 

Her  many  voices  mingling  own 
One  tyrant  lord,  one  idol  throne: 
But  to  His  triiunph  soon 


He  shall  descend  wlio  rules  above, 

And  the  pure  language  of  his  love 

All  tongues  of  men  shall  tune. 

Nor  let  ambition  heartless  mourn; 
When  I3al)ers  very  ruins  burn. 

Her  high  desires  may  breathe;  — 
O'ercome   thyself,  and   thou  may'st 

share 
With  Christ  his  Father's  throne,  and 
wear 
The  world's  imperial  wreath. 


Frances  Anne   Kemble. 

ABSE^^^■E. 


What  shall  I  do  witli  all  the  days 
and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy 
face  ? 
How  shall  I  chann  the  interval  that 
lowers 
Between  tliis  time  and  that  sweet 
time  of  grace  ? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary 
sense  — 
Weary  with  longing  ?    Shall  I  flee 
away 
Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond 
pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present 
day? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the 

sin 

Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift 

of  time  ?  [within. 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked 

Leave   and   forget   life's   purposes 

sublime  ? 

Oh,  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I 
contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee 
back  more  near  ? 
How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hopes 
to  live 
Until  that  °l)lessed  time,  and  tliou 
art  here  ? 


I'll  tell  thee;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay 
hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to 
thee, 
In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that 
is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one!  art   far 
from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thouglUs 
to  try 
All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and 
holy  strains; 
For  thy  dear  sake  I  will   wallv   jia- 
tiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call 
their  minutes  pains. 

I  will   this  dreary  blank  of  absence 
make 
A  noble  task-time;  and  will  tlu'roin 
strive 
To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won  since 
yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in 
me 
A    thousand    graces,   which    ■-iiall 
thus  be  thine; 
So  may  my  love  and  longim:  balloued 
be, 
An^l  thy  dear  thought  an  influence 
divine. 


818 


KEY. 


I'M  TIL 


Hkttkr  tnLst  all  ami  bo  deceived. 
And  weep  that  trust  anil  that  deceiv 


Oil,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 
I  The   doubting    (iend     o'ertakes    out 
111^.  youth: 

llian  lioubt  one  heart,  that  if  believed  '  Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Had  blessed  one's  lifewitii  true  be-    Than     lose     the     blessed     hope     of 
lieving.  I  truth. 


Francis  Scott  Key. 


THF.    STAIi-SPASGLKD  RANKER. 


Oh!  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's 

early  light 
What    so   ]iroudly   we   hailed    at  the 

twilight's  last  gleaming, — 
Whose  broad  slri])es  and  briuht  stars 

througii  the  jurilous  fight, 
O'er  the  rami)arts  we  watched,  were 

so  gallanlly  streaming! 
And  the  roeket'sred  glare,  the  bombs 

bur-iiii'4  in  air 
<^Jave  proof  tliroULih  the  night  that 

our  flag  was  still  there; 
oh!  say,  <loes  that  star-spangled  ban- 
ner yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and   the 

home  of  the  brave  ? 

(h\  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through 

the  nnsts  of  the  deej), 
Where   the    foe's    haughty   host    in 

dread  silenre  reposes, 
What   is  that  whieh  the  breeze,  o'er 

Ihf  towt-rim;  steep. 
As   it   til  fully  lilows,  now  conceals, 

now  discloses? 
\f)W    it   catches    the   gl.'am    of    the 

morning's  first  beam. 
In  full  tjlory  refleetcd.  now  shines  on 

the  stream; 
lis  the  star-sp;.ngled   banner;    oli, 

loTit;  may  it  wave 
O'er   the   land   of    the    free,   and   the 

home  of  the  bruvo! 


And  where  is  that  band  who  so 
vaunt inijly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  bat- 
tle's confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave 
us  no  more '? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their 
foul  footstejis'  pollution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and 
slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the 
gloom  of  the  grave; 

And  the  star-sitangled  banner  in  tri- 
umph doth  wave 

o'er  the  land  of  tin-  free,  and  the 
home  of  the  brave. 

Oh!   thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen 

shall  stand 
Hetween   their  loved  homes  ami  the 

war's  desolation! 
Blest  with  victory  and  jieace.  may  Iho 

heaven -rescued  land 
Praise  the  power  that  hath  mnde  and 

preserved  w^  a  nation. 
Then  eonipir-r  we  must,  for  our  cause 

It  is  just; 
And  this  be  our  motto, —  "  Tn  fJod  is 

our  trust,"  — 
And  the  slar-'-i>angled  banner  in  trl- 

lunph  shall  wave 
O'ei    I),.'   land  of  the  free     ..|.I   iho 

home  of  the  brave. 


KIMBALL. 


319 


Harriet  McEwen   Kimball. 


GOOD  NEWS. 

A.  BEE  flew  in  at  my  window, 
And  circled  around  my  head ; 

He  came  like  a  herald  of  summer- 
time. 
And  what  do  you  think  he  said  ? 

"As  sure  as  the  roses  shall  blos- 
som" — 
These  are  the  words  he  said, — 
"  As  sure  as  the  gardens  shall  laugh 
in  pride. 
And  the  meadows  blush  clover-red ; 

"As  siu-e  as  the  golden  robin 
Shall  build  her  a  swinging  nest, 

And  tlie  captured  sunbeam  lie  fast- 
locked 
In  the  marigold's  burning  breast; 

"  As  sure  as  the  water-Jilies 
Shall  float  like  a  fairy  fleet; 

As  siu-e  as  the  torrent  shall  leap  the 
rocks 
With  foamy,  fantastic  feet; 

"  As  sure  as  the  bobolink's  carol 

And  the  plaint  of  the  whii)poon\-ill 
Shall  gladden  the  morning,  and  sad- 
den the  niglit, 
And  the  crickets  pipe  loud  and 
shrill ; 

"So  sure  to  the  heart  of  the  maiden 
Who  liath  loved  and  sorrowed  long, 
Glad  tidini^s  shall  bring  the  summer 
of  joy 
With    bursting   of    blossom    and 
song!" 

A  seer  as  well  as  a  herald ! 

For  while  I  sat  weeping  to-day, 
The  tenderest.  cheeriest  letter  came 

From  Lionel  far  away. 

Good  news!  O  little  Ijee-prophet, 
Your  words  I  will  never  forget! 

It  may  l)e  foolish, —  that  dear,   old 
sign,— 
But  Lionel's  true  to  me  yet  I 


TROUBLE   TO  LEND. 

To-MORFiow  has  trouble  to  lend 

To  all  who  lack  to-day ; 
Go,    borrow    it,  —  borrow,    griefleas 
lieart, 

And  thou  with  thy  peace  wilt  pay  i 

To-morrow  has  trouble  to  lend, — 
An  endless,  endless  store; 

But  I  liave  as  much  as  heart  can 
hold,— 
Why  should  I  borrow  more ! 


HELIOTROPE. 

Saveetest,  sweetest.  Heliotrope! 
In  the  sunset's  dying  splendor. 
In  the  trance  of  twilight  tender. 
All  my  senses  I  surrender. 

To  the  subtle  spells  that  bind  me : 
The  dim  air  swimmeth  in  my  sight 
With  visions  vague  of  soft  delight: 

Sliadowy  hands  with  endless  chain 

Of  purple-clustered  bloom  enwind 
me ;  — 

Garlands  drenched  in  dreamy  rain 
Of  perfume  passionate  as  sorrow 
And  sad  as  Lo^'e's  to-morrow! 
Bewildering  music  fills  mine  eais, — 
Faint    laughter    and    commingling 
tears, — 

Flowing  like  delicious  pain 

Through  my  drowsy  brain. 
Bosomed  in  the  blissful  gloom, — 

Meseems    I    sink    on    slumberous 
slope 
Biu-ied  deep  in  inuple  liloom. 

Sweetest,  sweetest  Ileliolropel 

Undulates  the  earth  lieneath  nie; 

Still   the   shadow-hands  en  wreath 
me. 
And  clouds  of  faces  half  defined, 

Lovely  and  faiitastieid. 

Sweet, — O   sweet  I  —  and   strange 
witlial, 
Swee))ini:  like  a  desert  wind 
Across  my  vision  leave  nie  blind! 
Subtler  grows  the  spell  and  stronger; 


320 


KIMBALL. 


Wliut    enchantments   weird    possess 

1U»', — 

Now  uplift  me,  now  opi)ress  nie  ? 
Do  I  feiist,  or  do  1  himger  ? 

Is  it  l)liss,  or  is  it  anguish  '.' 

I^  it  Aiister's  treacherous  breath 
Ivissini;  me  with  lioneyed  deatli. 

While  I  sicken,  droop,  and  languish  ".' 

smi  I  feel  my  blood's  dull  beat 
in  uiy  Inail  ami  hands  and  feet; 

Mruggling  faintly  with  thy  sweet- 
ness, 

Heliotrope!  Heliotrope! 

(Jive  n>e  hack  my  strength's  com- 
pleteness. 
Must  I  pine  and  languish  ever! 
\\  ilt  thou  loose  my  senses  never! 
Wilt  thou  bloom  and  bloom  forever, 

Oh,  Lethean  Heliotrope  ? 

Ah,  the  night-wind,  freshly  blowing, 
Sets  the  languid  blood  a-llowing! 

i   revive! — 
i  eseajie  thy  spells  alive! 

I'lower!    1  love  and  »lo  not  love  thee! 
Ilnid  my  breath,  but  i)end  al)ove  thee; 

<  rush  thy  buds,  yet  bid  them  o[ie; 

Sweetest,  sweetest  Heliotrope! 


I)AY-l>l:EA.Ml\a. 

ITow  better  am  I 

Than  a  butteWly? 
Here,  us  the  noiseless  hours  go  by. 
Hour  by  hour, 
I    I  linii    to    my   fancy's    half-blown 

fifiwer: 
Over  its  sweetness  I  brood  and  broo<l. 
Ami  seareely  stir,  though  soimds  in- 
trude 
Tliat  vvdiilil   trouble  and  fret  another 

mood 

l,es«  divine 
Thau  miuel 


Who  cares  for  the  bees? 
I  will  take  my  ease. 
Dream    and    dream    as    long    as    I 

please; 
Hour  by  hour. 
With  love-wings  faiiniu!.   my  sweet, 

sweet  llower! 
(iather  your   honey,  and  board  your 

gold, 
rhrough    si>ring  and    summer,   and 

hive  through  cold! 
I  will  cling  to  my  llower  till  it  is 
mould, 
Breathe  one  sigh 
And  die! 


THE    LAST   APPEAL. 

TiiK  room  is  swept  and  garnished  for 
thy  sake; 
The  table  sjiread  with  Love's  most 
liberal  cheer: 
The   fire  is  blazing   brightly  on    the 
hearth ; 
Faith  lingers  yet  to  give  thee  wel- 
come here. 
When  w  ill.  thou  come  ? 

Daily    I    weave     the    airy    w»'b    of 
hope; 
Frail  as  the  spider's,  wrought  with 
bcatis  of  dew. — 
That,  like  Tem-lope's,  each  night  tm- 
done, 
Kach    morn    in    i>alience    1    begin 
anew. 
When  wilt  thou  eome  V 

.Vot  yet!     To-morrow  Kailh  will  take 
her  night. 
The  fire  die   out.  the  ban<|uet  dis- 
ap|>ear; 
Fon-ver   will    these    lingers  drojt   the 
web. 
And  oidy  desolation  wait  theeln're. 
Olt,  ru)iit  tu-day! 


KINO  ^  LEY. 


321 


Charles 

A  FAREWELL. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to 
give  you, 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull 
and  gray ; 
ret,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can 
leave  you 
For  every  day :  — 

Be  good,  my  dear,  and  let  who  will, 
be  clever; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them, 
all  day  long; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  the  vast 
forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 


KiNGSLEY. 

Throe  corpses  lay. out  on  the  shinin.; 
sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tiilt; 
went  down, 
And   the   women   are   weeping   and 
wringing  their  hands. 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back 
to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep  — 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner 
to  sleep  — 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its 
moauinif. 


THE    THREE  FISHERS. 

Thbee  fishers  went  sailing  away  to 
the  West  — 
Away  to  the  West  as  the  sim  went 
down ; 
Each   thought  on  the   woman  who 
loveii  him  the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching 
them  out  of  the  town; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep ; 
And  there's  little  to  earn  and  many 
to  keej). 
Though  the  harbor-bar  be  moan- 
ing. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse 
tower 
And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sim 
went  down; 
They  looked  at  the  sijuall,  and  they 
looked  at  the  sliower. 
And   tlie  nigbl-rack   came   rolling 
up,  ragged  and  brown. 
But  men  nuist  work  and  women  must 

weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden  and  waters 
deep. 
And   the   harbor-bar   be   moan- 
ing. 


DOLCINO   TO  MARGARET. 

The  world  goes   up  and   the  world 
goes  down. 
And     the    sunshine     follows    the 
rain; 
And  yesterday's  sneer  and  yesterday's 
frown 
Can  never  come  over  again, 

Sweet  wife: 
No,  never  come  over  again. 

For  woman  is  warm,  though  man  be 
cold, 
And    the    night   will    hallow    the 
day; 
Till  the  heart  which  at  eve  was  weai-y 
anil  old 
Can  rise  in  the  morning  gay. 
Sweet  wife; 
To  its  work  in  \\w  Minruinggay 


SAXDS    OF  DEE. 

"  O  Mary,    go   aud    call    tlie   cattle 
home, 
,\nd  call  lli(>  cattle  liome 
Ai.d  call  I  lie  cattle  home, 
Across  the  s;inds  of  Dee!  " 
Tlie  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank 
with  foam 
And  all  alone  went  she. 


3l>2 


KSOX. 


Tlu'  western  tide  crept  up  along  the 
sand. 
Ami  o'er  and  oVr  tlio  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eyo  could  sue. 
The  rolling  mist  cume  down  ami  hid 
the  land 
And  never  home  came  she. 

•  Oh  Is  it  weed,  or  tish,  or  tloaling 
hair  — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair  — 


Above  the  nets  at  sea  '? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so 
fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  ai-ross  the  rolling 
foam  — 
The  iTUi'l.  crawIinLj  foam, 
The  cnicl,  huniiiy  foam  — 
To  her  i,'rav('  beside  the  sea; 
But  still   the  boalmt-n   hear  her  call 
tile  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Uee. 


William    Knox. 


on;    WHY  SHOULD  THE  Sl'IlilT  OF  MOKTAL   RE  PROUD* 


On  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal 
be  proud  ? 

Like  a  swifl-lleeting  meteor,  a  fast- 
Hying  cloud, 

A  flash  (jf  the  lightning,  a  break  of 
the  wave. 

He  pjisseth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  tlie 
grave. 


And  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  liv- 
ing,' erased 

Are  tlie  memories  of  mortals  wbn 
love.l  iier  and  praised. 

The  head  of  the  king,  that  the  .sccptu 

bath  borne; 
The  brow  of  the  priest,  that  theniiir. 

bath  worn; 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  tlie  heart  ot 

the  brave.  — 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  dejitlis  o( 

the  grave. 


The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow 

sliall  fade. 
He  seattered  around,  and  together  he 

laid: 
As  the   young  and   the  old.  the   low 

and  the  high.  |  The  pi-asanl,  whose  lot   was   to  sov'. 

•Shall   crumble  to  dust   and  togetln-r  I  and  to  rea]>; 

sliall  lie.  I  The  herdsni.iii,  «lio  elimlH-d  with  his 

goats  up  the  sleep; 


The   infant,  a  mother  attended  and 

lovetl. 
Tin-  moilier,  that   infant's  afTection 

who  proved, 
I  bi-  faliier.  tiiat   niotlier  and   infaiil 

who  blest, 
liaeji.  all,  are  away  to  that  ilwelling 

<)f  rest. 

The  maid,  on  whose  l>row,  on  whose 
cheek.  In  wlH)He  eye. 

Shone  l—aul\  ami  ]>)easure,  —  her  tri- 
umphs ari'  by; 


The  beg'.;ar.  who  wandered  in  search 

of  bis  bread.  — 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that 

we  tread. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  llie1low«*r 

or  weed. 
Thai  wltln-rs  awav  to  let  others  »uc- 

« I: 

So  the  miiltitiiile  comes,  even  lh(»so 

we  beboM, 

To  reju'at   every  lab'  Ib.il    has  often 
been  told! 


LACOSTE. 


323 


For  we  are  the  samt;  that  our  fathers 

have  been ; 
Wc  see    the    same   sights   that  our 

fathers  have  seen: 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we 

feel  the  same  sun. 
And  run  the  same  course  that  our 

fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our 

fathers  did  think; 
From  tlie  death  we  are  shrinking  our 

fathers  did  shrink; 
To  the   life  we  ar3  clinging  our  fa- 

tliers  did  cHng, 
But  it  speeils  from  us  all  like  the  bird 

on  the  wing. 

Tliey  loved,  —  but  the  story  we  can- 
not unfold ; 

They  scorned,  —  but  the  heart  of  the 
haughty  is  cold; 

They  grieved,  —  but  no  wail  from 
their  slumbei-s  will  come; 

They  joyed,  —  but  the  tongue  of  their 
gladness  is  dumb. 


They  died,  — ah!  they  died;  —  we. 
things  that  are  now, 

That  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  ovei 
their  brow, 

And  make  in  their  dwelling  a  tran- 
sient abode. 

Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their 
pilgrimage  road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure 

and  pain. 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and 

rain : 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  and  the 

song  and  the  dirge. 
Still    follow   each    other  like  surge 

upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye;  'tis  the 

draught  of  a  breath 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the 

paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the   bier 

and  the  shroud ; 
Oh !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal 

be  proud  ? 


Marie  R.  Lacoste. 


SOMEIiOD  Y'S  DARLING. 


Into  a  ward    of    the    whitewashed 
walls. 
Where  the  dead  and  living  lay. 
Wounded    by   bayonets,   shells,   and 
balls. 
Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one 
day  — 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young,  and  so 
l)rav<'. 
Wearing  yet  on  his  pale  sweet  face, 
Soon  to  i)e  hid  by  the  dust  of  the 
grave. 
The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's 
grace. 

Matted  and  damj)  are  the  ciuls  of 
gold,  [brow; 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  yoimg 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 


Back  from  his  beautiful,  blue-veined 
brow, 
Brush  all  the  Mandering  waves  of 
gold. 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now. 
Somebody's    darling    is    still  and 
cold. 


Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 

Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low; 
One  bright  ciu-1  from  its  fair  mates 
take, 
They  were  somebody's  pride,  you 
know : 
Somebody's  hand  has  rested  there, — 
Was  it  a  mother's  soft  and  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 
Been    baptized    in   those  waves  of 
light  ? 


824 


LAKIIITON. 


God  knows  best  —  lie  was  somebody's 

Somebody's  waiting  and  watohinj:  for 

Idvc; 

liiin  — 

Somebotly's  heart  enshririod   him 

Yearnini;  to  hold  him  again  to  the 

thiTt"; 

liearl; 

Somebody  wafted  his  namt»  above 

Anil  there  he  lies  wllli  hi-  bhie  eyes 

Night  and   imkiii   on   tlie   wiiit^s  of 

dim. 

prayer. 

And    tlie    .smiling,    iliiliilike     lips 

Someboiiy    wept   when    he    marehed 

ai>art. 

away 

Tendi  ri>  l>ury  the  fair  yoiuig  dead. 

Lookini;  so  liandsoine,  brave,  and 

rausing  to  drop  on  his  grave   a 

yranil ; 

tear; 

Somel)odv's    kiss    on    his    forehead 
i..f" 

Carve    on    tlu;    wooden   slab  at  his 

lay , 
Someltody    clmig    to    his    partini^ 

lUMtl, 

'•  .Soniel>ody's     darling     slumbers 

hand. 

here."' 

ALBERT    LaIGHTON. 


UNDER  THE  LEAVES. 

Oft  have  I  walked  these  woodland 
l>aths. 

Without  the  l)]est  foreknowing 
That  underiiealh  the  wIiIk  red  leaves 

The  fairest  buds  were  growing. 


To-<lay  the  soutli-wiud  sweeps  away 
Tlie  lyi»es  of  jiutuiiiu's  spli-ndor. 

And  s1k)ws  theswi'et  arlnUus  (lowers, 
Spring's  children,  pure  and  tender. 


O    proidiet-flowers!  —  witli     lips    of 
bloom. 

Outvying  in  your  beauty 
Tli>'  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells, — 

Ye  t«!ach  me  faith  and  duty! 


"  Walk  life's  dark  ways."  ye  s<'em  to 

say, 
"  With  lr>ve's  divine  foreknowint;. 
Tiiat  where  man  sees  but  wllhere<| 

leaves, 

God  m!ea  sweet  flowers  growing." 


//)'    77//;    DKAD. 

SWEKT  winter  roses,  staiidess  as  (he 

snow. 
As  was  iby  life,  O  lender  heart  and 

true! 
A  cross  of  lilies  that  our  tears  l»edew. 
\  garland  of  I  lie  fain-st  (lowers  I  bat 

grow, 
.\iid    tilled     wilb     fiagnmee    iis    the 

llli>ll::bl  of  liirr. 

We  lay,  wiiii  loviii„'  band,  upon  thy 

breast, 
Wnipt  in  the  ealm  of  Death's  great 

mystery; 
Ours  still  to  feel  (he  pain,  the  unlan- 

glianed  woe. 
The  hitler  sense  of  loss,   the   vague 

unrest. 
•Vnd    wear    unseen    the   eypress-leaf 

and  rue. 
Thinking.  I  be  while,  of  lovelier  flow- 
ers that  blow 
In  everlasting  gardeiis  of  the  blest, 
'I'hal  witber  not  like  these,  and  never 

shed 
Their  rare  and  beavenly  mlors  for  Ui« 

dead. 


LAMB. 


325 


Charles  Lamb. 


,  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playiuatcs,  I  have  had 
couii)anions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joy- 
ful school-days; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 
faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been 

carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my 

bosom  cronies; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 

faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among 

women ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must 

not  see  her; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 

faces. 

1  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has 
no  man; 

Like  an  ingrate,  1  left  my  friend  ab- 
ruptly — 

Left  him  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar 
faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts 

of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  1  was  bound 

to  traverse, 
Seeking    to    find    the    old    familiar 

faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  fhou  more  than 
a  brother. 

Why  wert  not  thou  i)orn  in  my  fa- 
ther's dwelling? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar 
faces  — 

How  some  they  have  di<>il,  and  some 

they  have  left  nie. 
And  some  are  taken  tioni  inr;  all  are 

dejiartcd. 
All,   all   are  gone,  the   old   familiar 

faces  1 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavor. 

A  month  or  more  has  she  been  dead. 
Yet  cannot  I  l)y  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate. 
That  flushed  her  si^irit: 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call ;  —  if  't  was  not  pride. 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied. 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feelings  cool: 
But    she    was    trained    in    nature's 
school, 
Nature  had  blessed  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind; 
A    hawk's   keen    sight    ye    cannot 
blind,  — 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore! 
Shall  we  not  meet  as  licictofore 
Some  siunnier  morning; 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  ujion  the  day,  — 
A  bliss  that  would  not  no  away,  — 
A  sweet  forew  arning  ? 


THE  irorsEKEE/'EH. 

The  frugal  snail, wltli  forecast  of  re 

pose. 
Carries  his  bouse  with  him  where'ei 

he  goes; 


826 


LANDON. 


Peeps  out,  —  iiiiil  if   Ihi-re  oomes    a  '  Himself  lio  lioanls  and  lodges;  both 

show  IT  (if  mill.  i  invites 

Retreats     to     his     small     domicile  ;  And  feasts  hiiiiM-lf;  sleeps  with  him- 

ugain.  J  self  u'  nights. 

Touch  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn, — 'tis  |  He  spares  tin-  upholsterer  trouble  to 

well, —  i  procure  |ture. 

He  curls  up  in  liis  sanctuarj' shell.        Chattels;    himself  is  his  own  furni- 
He'shis  own  landlord,  his  own  ten-    And  his  sole  riches.     Wheresoe'er he 

ant;  stay  mam.  — 

Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  ijuar-  i  Knock  when  you  will,  —  he's  sine  to 

ter-tlay.  I  be  at  home. 


L^TiTiA    Elizabeth   Landon. 


SUCCESS  ALOXE  SEEX. 

Few  know  of  life's  beginnings  — 

men  beliold 
The     goal   achieved;  —  the   warrior, 

when  his  sword 
Flashes  red  trinni]ih  in  the  noonday 

sun; 
The  poet,  when  his  lyre  liangs  on  the 

jialm; 
The  statesman,  when  the  crowd  jiro- 

claim  his  voice, 
And    motdd    opinion   on   his   gifted 

tongue  : 
They  cotmt  not  lif«^'s  first  steps,  and 

nevi-r  think 
ITjxMi  the  many  misenible  hours 
When  hope  ileferred  was  sickness  to 

the  heart. 
They  reckon  not   the  battle  and  the 

march. 
The    long    i)rivali(tns    of    a    wasted 

youth ; 
'J'hey  never  see  the  banner  till    lui- 

furled. 
AVbat  are  to  them  the  solitary  nights 
I'assed    pale   and    ;inxlou^ly    by    the 

sickly  lam]), 
'J'ill  tlie  yr)nng  poet  wins  the  world  at 

la.sl 
To  listen  U^  tin-  maslc  long  bis  own  '.' 
The   erowd   attend    the  stati'sman's 

tiery  mind 
That  makes  their  destiny;  but  they 

d<»  not  tm<M- 
It«  struggle,  or  iUt  long  expectancy. 


Hard  are  life's  early  stejis;  ami,  hut 

that  youth 
Is  buoyant,  conlident.  and  strong  in 

hope. 

Men  woulil  behold  its  threshold,  and 
desjiair. 


Till-:   LITTLE  SJIJiOlT). 


Sui:  bad  lost  many  children  —  now 
The  last  of  them  was  gone: 

And  day  and  night  she  sat  and  wejit 
Heside  the  funeral  st<ine. 

One    midnight,   while   her  e.insi.uii 
te.irs 

Were  falling  with  the  dew  . 
(She  heard  a  \oice,  and  lo!  Iier  <  hild 

Stood  by  bi'r.  weeping  loo! 

His  shroud  was  damp,  his  fai-e  was 
while; 
lie  said  —  "  I  eannot  sleen, 
Voiu-  tears  have  nnide  my  .shroud  fto 
wet; 
()  mother,  do  not  weep!" 

Oh,  love   is  .strong!  —  llie    nioiliei's 
heart 
Was  filled  with  lender  fears; 
Ob,    love   is  strong!— and   for  hei 
child 
Her  ;;rlef  restrained  its  tears. 


LANDOR. 


327 


One  eve  a  light  shone  round  her  bed, 
And  there  she  saw  him  stand  — 

Her  infant  in  liis  little  shroud, 
A  taper  in  his  hand. 

"Lol  mother,  see  my  shroud  is  dry, 
And  I  can  sleep  once  more!" 

And  beautifiU  the  parting  smile 
The  little  infant  wore. 

The    mother    went    her    household 
ways  — 

Again  she  knelt  in  prayer, 
And  only  asked  of  heaven  its  aid 

Her  heavy  lot  to  bear. 


THE  POET. 

Ah,  deeply  the  minstrel  has  felt  all 
he  sings, 
Every  passion  he  paints  his  own 
bosom  has  known; 
N"©  note  of  wild  music  is  swept  from 
the  strings. 
But  first  his  own    feelings    have 
echoed  the  tone. 

Then  say  not  his  love  is  a  fugitive 
fire, 
That  the  heart  can  be  ice  while  the 
lip  is  of  flame : 
Oh,  say  not  that  truth  does  not  dwell 
with  the  lyre: 
For  the  pulse  of  the  heart  and  the 
harp  are  the  same. 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  AT  PO^fPE^r. 

I  SEE  the   ancient  master  pale  and 

worn. 
Though  on  him  shines  the    lovely 

southern  heaven. 
And  Naples  greets  him  with  festivity. 


The  dying  by  the  dead:  for  his  great 
sake 

They  have  laid  bare  the  city  of  the 
lost: 

His  own  creations  till  the  silent 
streets ; 

The  Roman  pavement  rings  with 
golden  spurs, 

The  Highland  plaid  shades  dark  Ital- 
ian eyes. 

And  the  young  king  himself  is 
Ivanhoe. 


But  there  the  old  man  sits,  —  majes- 
tic, wan. 

Himself  a  mighty  vision  of  the  past; 

The  glorious  mind  has  bowed  beneath 
its  toil ; 

He  does  not  hear  his  name  on  foreign 
lips 

That  thank  him  for  a  thousand  happy 
hours : 

He  does  not  see  the  glittering  groups 
that  prt?ss 

In  wonder  and  in  homage  to  his  side; 

Death  is  beside  his  triumph. 


Walter  Savage  Landor. 


RUBIES. 

Often  I  have  heard  it  said 
That  her  lips  are  ruby  red. 
Little  heed  I  what  they  say, 
I  have  seen  as  red  as  they. 
Ere  she  smiled  on  other  men, 
Real  rubies  were  they  then. 

WTien  she  kissed  me  once  in  play, 
Kubies  were  less  bright  than  they, 


And  less   bright   were  those  whicli 

shone 
In  the  palace  of  the  sun. 
Will  they  be  as  bright  again? 
Not  if  kissed  by  other  men. 


Jjy  NO  HASTE. 

Nay,  thank  me  not  again  for  those 
Camellias,  that  untimely  rose; 
But  if,  wlu'uce  you  might  please  the 
more. 


328 


LANIER. 


Ami  win  the  few  uiiwon  before, 
1  souglit  the  llo\s  ers  you  love  to  wear, 
Uerjoyed  to  see  them  in  your  Ixair, 
Ui)on  my  grave.  1  pray  you  set 
One  primrose  or  one  violet. 
.  .  .  Stay  ...  I  can  wait  a  little  yet. 


ROSE  AYLMEIL 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  ? 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine? 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ? 

Kose  .Vylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful 
eyes 

May  Wft'i)  hut  never  see, 
\  night  of  yjemoiies  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


DEATH  or   THE   DAY. 

My  pictures  hlacken  in  their  frames 

As  night  comes  on. 
And   youthful   maiils  and  wrinkled 
dames 

Are  now  ull  one. 


Death  of  the  Day  I  a  sterner  Death 

Did  worse  before; 
The  fairest  form,  the  sweetest  breath. 

Away  he  bore. 


/    Wll.l.  SOT  LOVE. 

I    WILL    not    lovi' .'    These    sound? 
have  often 

Burst  from  a  troubled  breast; 
Rarely  fnniumr  mo -.igiiscoultl  soften 

Rarely  from  one  al  rest. 


A    REQUEST. 

TiiK  place  where  soon  I  think  to  lie 
In  its  old  creviced  nook  hard  by, 

KeaiN  many  a  weetl : 
If  parties  biin^  you  there,  will  ynu 
Drop  slyly  In  a  !,'rain  or  two 

Of  walillower  seed? 

I  shall  not  see  it,  and  (too  sure!) 
1  shall  not  ever  hear  that  your 

Liuiil  step  was  ihere; 
IJut  the  rW\  odor  some  fine  day 
Will,  what  1  t-annot  »lo.  repay 
That  little  care. 


Sidney   Lanier. 

EVEXIXO   SOXO.  Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort 

_.    ,        ,                       .,  ,                beavfu's  lieart; 

L.H.K  off,  drar  Love,  across  the  sal-       (jiinuncr.  ye  waveu,  roun.l  .Ise  un- 

low  sands,           .         ,    ,  I              lighl.-d  sands; 

And  mark  you  me..tingof  the  sun    q  y;■^^,^^^    .Hvon-e  our  stn>  and   moon 

and  s.-a;  ,              ^.y^^^  _ 
How  Ion-.'  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the        j^.,.^.,,^  ,„„.  ,j  ^^   „„r  ,,jj,„1j,. 
lands! 

Ah,  longer,  longer  we.  | 

I  l/lo.U   THE   FLATS. 

Now  in  the  sea's  n-d  vintage  nults 

Ibf  sun,  What  bcarlai-lu". —  ne'er  a  hill! 

As  Kirypl's  jtearl  dissolvid   in  rosy  Ini-xorabli*.  vapid,  vague  .iiid  chill, 

wine,  Tlw  drear  sand-levels  drain  my  spirit 
And  f'lfojiatra  Night  lirinks  all.   "lis  low. 

douf!  Willi  on<-  poor  word  lliey  tell  me  al! 
Love,  lay  Iby  band  in  mine.  tin  y  know; 


LARCOM. 


329 


Whereat    their    stupid    tongues,    to 

tease  my  piiin, 
Do  draw  it  o'er  again  and  o'er  again. 
They   hurt  my  heart  with  griefs  1 

cannot  name: 
AJway£  the  same,  the  same. 

Nature  hath  no  surprise, 

No  ambuscade  of  beauty,  'gainst 
mine  eyes 

From  brake,  or  kirking  dell,  or  deep 
defile; 

No  humors,  frolic  forms, —  this  mile, 
that  mile; 

No  rich  reserves  or  happy-valley 
hopes 

Beyond  the  bends  of  roads,  the  dis- 
tant slopes. 

Her  fancy  fails,  her  wild  is  all  run 
tame: 
Ever  the  same,  the  same. 

Oh !  might  I  through  these  tears 

But  glimpse  some  hill  my  Georgia 
high  uprears, 

Where  white  the  quartz,  and  pink 
the  pebbles  shine. 

The  hickory  heavenward  strives,  the 
muscadine 

Swings  o'er  the  slope;  the  oak's  far- 
falling  shade 

Darkens  the  dog-wood  in  the  bottom 
glade, 


And  down  the  hollow  from  a  ferny 
nook 
Bright  leaps  a  living  brook! 


BETRA  YAL. 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  violet  sea, 
And  turned  the  violet  to  a  rose. 

O  Sea!  wouldst  thou  not  better  be 
Mere   violet   still  ?     Who  knows  ? 

who  knows  ? 
Well  hides  the  violet  in  the  wood: 
The  dead  leaf  wrinkles  her  a  hood. 
And  winter's  ill  is  violet's  good; 
But  the  bold  glory  of  the  rose, 
It  quickly  comes  and  (piickly  goes; 
Red  petals  whirling  in  white  snows, 
Ah  me ! 

The  sun  has  burnt  the  rose-red  sea : 
The  rose  is  turned  to  ashes  gray. 

<)  Sea!  O  Sea!  mightst  thou  but  be 
The  violet  thou  hast  Ijccn  to-Jay! 
The  sun  is  brave,  the  sun  is  briirht, 
The  sun  is  lord  of  love  and  light; 
But  after  him  it  cometh  night. 
O  anguish  of  the  lonesome  dark! 
Once  a  girl's  body,  stiff  and  stark. 
Was  laid  in  a  tomb  without  a  mark. 
Ah  me! 


Lucy  Larcom. 


HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 

Poor  lone  Hannah, 

Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes, 

Faded,  wrinkled. 
Sitting,    stitching,    in    a    mournful 
muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she. 
When  the  l)l()<)m  was  on  the  tree: 
Spring  anil  \\inter, 
Hannah's  at   the   window,    binding 
shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor, 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse, 


To  her  whisper, 
"  Is    there    from    the    fishers    any 
news?" 
Oh,  her  heart's  adrift,  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone! 
Night  and  morning, 
Hannah's  at    the  window,    binding 
shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos. 

JJali'  anil  clever. 
Ffiia  willing  heart  and  hand  lu' sues. 
-May-day  skies  are  all  aglow. 
Ami  the  waves  are  laughing  so! 


880 


LAIiCOM. 


For  her  wedding; 
Hannah  k-avus  her  wiiitlow  ami   her 
shoes. 

May  is  passiiitj; 
Mid  tli«'  aiiplc-houLchsa  pigeon  coos, 

Hannali  shuddei's. 
For  tlif   mild   southwcsItT   mischief 
brews. 
Kound  tlie  rocks  of  Marhlehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped: 
Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at    the   window,   binding 
shoes. 

'Tis  November, 
Xow  no  tear  her  wasted  cht.'ek  be- 
dews. 
From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Wliisix-rinn  hoarsely,  "  Fishennen, 
Have    vou,    have    you    heard    of 
Heni'" 
Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's    at   the   window,   binding 
shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleacli  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she 
views 
Twenty  seasons, — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
(Jhase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 
II(>|M'less,  faithful, 
Haiinaii's   at    the    window,    binding 
shoes. 


[From  /fint».] 

Tin:  crnriix  or  riii:  daiik. 

'I'llK  curtain  of  the  dark 
Ih  pierced  liy  many  a  rent : 

Out  of  the  star-wells,  spark  on  spark 
Trickles  through  night's  torn  tent. 

(trii'f  is  a  tattered  tent 

Wherctbrouub    (i<MrB    light    dolli 
shine. 
IVho  glances  up,  at  every  rent 

Bhall  catch  u  rav  divine. 


V\  WEDDED. 

liKiioi.i)   her  there   in   the  evening 
sun, 
That   kindles  the  Indian  summer 
trees 
To  a  separate  hurning  bush,  (uie  by 
one, 
Wherein  the  Glory  Divine  she  sees! 

Mate  and  nestlings  she  never  hail: 
Kith    and     kindred    have    passed 
away; 
Yet  the  sunset  is  not  niore  gently 
glad. 
That  follows  her  shadow,  and  fain 
would  stay. 

For  out  of  her  life  goes  a  breath  of 
bliss, 
.\nd   a   sunlike   charm    from    her 
cheerful  eye. 
That   the   cloud    and    the    loitering 
bree/.e  would  miss; 
A  balm  that  refreshes  the  passer- 
by. 

"  Did  she  choose  il,  this  sin;;le  life?" 
(iossi]),  she  saith  not,  ami  who  can 
tell '.' 
Hut    nianv  a    nmiher,    and    nianv   a 
wifl-, 
Dniws  a   lot   more   lonely,   we  all 
know  well. 

Doubtless    she    had     her    romanti< 
dream. 
Like  other  maidens,  in  May-lime 

SWt'cl, 

That  flushes  the  air  with  a  ling«'ring 
gleam, 
.\inl  'ioldcns  flu-  grass  lieneath  her 
feet : — 

A  dream  unmoidded  to  visible  form, 
Tbai    keeps    the   world    ntsy    with 
mists  of  youth, 
.\nd  liidds  her  in  loyalty  close  and 
warm, 
'i'o  her  line  ideal  ut  nianiy  I  ruth. 

"  Hut  is  slif  lia|(py,  a  woman  alone  '."' 
(iossip,    alone     in     tliis    crowded 
earth, 


LARCOM. 


331 


With  a  voice    to    quiet    its  hourly 
moan, 
And  a  smile  to  heighten  its  rarer 
mirth ! 

There  are  ends  more  worthy  than 
happiness : 
Who    seeks    it,   is    digging   joy's 
grave,  we  know. 
The  blessed  are  they  who  but  live  to 
bless; 
She  fomid  out  that  mystery,  long 
ago. 

To  her  motherly,  sheltering  atmos- 
phere, 
The    children    hasten    from    icy 
homes : 
The  outcast  is  welcome  to  share  her 
cheer ; 
And  the  saint  with  a  fervent  beni- 
son  comes. 

For  the  hea>-t  of  woman  is  large  as 
man's; 
God  gave  her  his  orphaned  world 
to  hold. 
And    whispered    through    her    His 
deeper  plans 
To  save   it  alive  from  the  outer 
cold. 

And  here  is  a  woman  who  under- 
stood 
Herself,  her  work,  and  God's  will 
with  her. 
To  gather  and  scatter  His  sheaves  of 
good, 
And  was  meekly  thankful,  though 
men  demur. 

Would  she  have  walked  more  nobly, 
think, 
With  a  man  beside  her,  to  point 
the  way. 
Hand  joining  hand  in  the  marriage- 
link  ? 
Possibly,  Yes;  it  is  likelier,  Nay. 

For  all  men    have  not  wisdom  ami 
niiglit: 
Love's  eyes  are  tender,  and   blur 
the  map; 


And  a  wife  will  follow  by  faith,  not 
sight. 
In   the  chosen  footprint,   at   any 
hap. 

In  the  comfort  of  home  who  is  glad- 
der than  she  ? 
Yet,    stirred    by    no    murmur    of 
"  might  have  been," 
Her  heart  as  a  carolling  bird  soars 
free. 
With  the  song  of  each  nest  she  has 
glanced  within. 

Having    the  whole,  she    covets    no 
part: 
Hers  is    the  bliss  of    all   blessed 
things. 
The    tears    that    unto    her    eyelids 
start. 
Are  those  which  a  generous  pity 
brings ; 

Or  the  sympathy  of  heroic  faith 
With  a  holy  purpose,  achieved  or 
lost. 
To  stifle  the  truth   is   to   stop    her 
breath. 
For  she  rates  a  lie  at  its  deadly 
cost. 

Her  friends  are   good   women    ami 
faithful  men. 
Who  seek  for  the  true,  and  uphold 
the  right; 
And    who    shall    proclaim    her    llu- 
weaker,  when 
Her  very  presence  puts  sin  to  flight'.* 

"  And  dreads  she  never  the  coming 
years  ?  " 
Gossip,    what    are    the    years    to 
her? 
All  wimls  are  fair,  and  the  harbor 
nears. 
And   every   breeze  a   delight    will 
stir. 

Transfigured  under  the  sunset  trees. 
That   wrciitlic   lit-r   with   shadowy 
gold  and  nvl. 
She  looks  away  to  the  purple  seas, 
Whereon  her  shallop  will  sooa  be 
sped. 


332 


LARCOM. 


Slu-  rtuuls  the  hi'ioafltT  by  the  here; 
A  lu'aiitifiil  Now,  ami  a  belter  To 
li.-: 
Ill  life  is  all   s\ve«'tness,  in  death   no 
fear,— 
You  waste   your  pity  on  sucli  as 

Slie. 


HAS1>   IS  HAS  I)    Ml  I II  ASGELS. 

Hand  in  haml  witli  angels, 

Throuuh  tho  world  we  go; 
Brighter  eyes  are  on  us 

Than  we  blind  ones  know; 
Tend'-rer  voiees  ciieer  us 

Than  we  deal  will  mvn; 
Never,  walkiiii,'  heavenwanl, 

(  an  we  walk  alone. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels, 

Jn  the  busy  street. 
IJy  the  winter  hearth-tires, — 

Every  wilt-re. —  we  meet, 
Tiiouu'h  unlled^ed  and  songless, 

IJinls  of  I'aradise; 
Heaven  looks  at  us  daily 

Out  of  human  eyes. 

Haml  in  hand  with  angels; 

( >ft  in  menial  guise; 
Ily  the  .same  .strait  pathway 

I'rince  and  begi,'ar  rise, 
if  we  dnip  the  (ill'jers, 

Toil-imlirowiied  and  worn. 
Then  one  link  witli  heaven 

From  our  life  is  im  ii. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels: 

Some  are  fiillen.— alas! 
Soiled  wiiiL's  trail  pollutiou 

Over  all  iliey  pass. 
Lift  them  into  siuishine! 

Hid  I  hem  .seek  the  sky! 
\Veak<r  is  your  soaring. 

When  they  eea.se  to  Ily. 

Hand  In  hand  with  angels; 

Some  are  out  of  sight, 
Leading  ns,  unknowing. 

Into  palhh  of  light. 
Some  dear  hands  are  loosened 

From  oiw  earthly  ilii»|», 
Soul  in  soul  to  hold  us 

With  a  firmer  grasp. 


Hand  in  hand  with  angels, — 

'Tis  a  twisti'd  chain. 
Winiling  heavenward,  earthward. 

Linking  joy  and  pain. 
There's  a  moiniiful  jarring. 

There's  a  elank  of  doubt. 
If  a  heart  grows  heavy, 

Ur  a  hand's  left  out. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels 

Walking  every  day;  — 
How  the  ehain  may  lengthen. 

None  of  MS  can  say. 
But  we  know  it  naelies 

From  earth's  lowliest  one, 
To  the  shininu  seraph. 

Throned  beyond  the  sun. 

Haml  in  hand  with  angels! 

l>le>sed  so  to  be! 
Helped  are  all  the  he!pei-s; 

(iiving  li;:hl,  they  see. 
He  w  lio  aids  another 

Streuijihens  more  than  one; 
Sinking  earth  he  grapples 

To  the  Cireat  VVhite  'I'hrone. 


A  sruil'   OF  III. IK. 

I  ])()  not  own  an  ineli  of  land, 

Ihil  all  I  see  is  nnne. — 
The  orehanl  and  the  mowing-lieKls 

Till'  lawns  ainl  L;ar(len>  line. 
The  winds  my  ta.s-eoilicioi-s  are. 

They  lirinj^  me  tithes  divine, — 
Wild  seenis  ami  subtle  essi'uces, 

.\  tribute  rare  and  free: 
And  more  mai;nilieeni  than  all, 

.My  w  indow  keeps  for  me 
.\  glimpse  of  blue  inunensity, — 

.\  little  strip  of  sea. 

Wieher  am  1  than  he  who  owns 

(ireal  Ill-els  and  argosies; 
1  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze 
To  loiiei  on  yon  uWy  road 

Above  the  ajiple-lrees. 
I    freight     them     with     my    ini'vH 
dreams. 


LARCOM. 


333 


Each  boars  my  own  picked  crew ; 
And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

'i  luui  ever  India  knew, — 
My  sliips  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes    they    seem    like    living 
shapes, — 

The  people  of  the  sky, — 
Guests    in    white    raiment    coming 
down 

From  heaven,  which  is  close  by: 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names. 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh, 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like. 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom, 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight ; 
its  east    and    west,   its    north    and 
south, 

Spread  out  from  mom  to  night: 
We  miss  the  wann,  caressing  shore. 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole ; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told ; 
The  fringes  of  eternity, — 

God's  sweeping  garment-fold, 
In  that  bright  shred  of  glimmering 
sea, 

I  reach  out  for,  and  hold. 

The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist; 
The    waves     are     broken     precious 
stones, — 

Sapphin;  and  amethyst, 
Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls 

By  suns  unsetting  kissed. 


Out  through   the    utmost    gates    of 
space, 

Past  where  the  gray  stars  drift, 
To  the  widening  Inlinite,  my  soul 

Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift; 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child : 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor. 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before. 
The  universe,  O  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth,  to  me; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be; 
Glad,  when  is  opened  to  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  thee. 


[From  Hints.] 

HEAVEN  NEAR   THE    VIRTUOUS. 

They  whose  hearts  are  whole  and 
strong, 

Loving  holiness. 
Living  clean  from  soil  of  wrong, 

Wearing  truth's  wlute  dress, — 
They  unto  no  far-off  lieight 

Wearily  need  cllml); 
Heaven  to  them  is  close  In  sight 

From  these  shores  of  time. 

Only  the  anointe<l  eye 

Sees  in  coininon  tilings, — 
Gleams  (lropi>ed  daily  from  the  sky 

Heavenly  blossomings. 
To  the  hearts  when-  light  h;is  birth 

Nothing  can  be  drear; 
Budding  through  the  bloom  of  eartl 

Heaven  is  always  near. 


834 


LA  TfinOP. 


George   Parsons   Lathrop. 

TO  M  Y  SON. 


Do  you  remember,  my  sweet,  absent 

son, 
How  in  the  soft  June  days  forever 

don»' 
You  lovoil  the  heavens  so  warm  and 

clear  and  high ; 
And   wlien  I  lifted  you,  soft  came 

your  cry  — 
♦Tut  me  "way  up  — 'way  up  in  the 

blue  sky '?" 

I  laughed  and  said  I  could  not;  set 

you  down, 
Your  gray  eyes  wonder-filled  beneath 

that  crown 
Of  bri^^ht  hair  gladdening  me  as  you 

raced  by. 
Another   Father  now,   more    strong 

than  I, 
lias  burnt;  you  voiceless  to  your  dear 

blue  sky. 


And  let  her  beauty  pour  tli rough 

every  vein 
Sunlight  antl  life,  part  of  ine.     Thus 

the  lover 
With  each  new  morn  a  new   world 

may  discover. 


iTRW   WORLDS. 

With  my  beloved  I  lingered  late  one 

night. 
At  hwl  the  hour  when  1  nuisl  leave 

her  came: 
But,  a.s  I  lunied,  a  fear  I  could  not 

name 
ros8e.ssed    me    that    the    long    sweet 

evening  might 
I'reluili-  some  .sudden  storm,  whereby 

drliuht 
.Sh<»iild  jM-rish.     What  if  Death,  ere 

dawn,  slioiiM  ciiiim 
Oneofns?     Whiii,  tliongii  living, 

not  I  lie  .same 
Each  shouiil  appear  to  each  in  morn- 
ing light  '.' 

Changed    did    I    liiid   her,   truly,   the 

next  day: 
Ne'er  eould    I    see   her  a-S  of  old 

auain. 
That  .Htnmge  nuMxl  seemed  to  draw  a 

cloud  away, 


THE  j.ii.Y-rosn. 

Some  fairy  spirit  witli  his  wand, 
I  think,  has  hove'c.l  o'er  the  dell. 

And  spread  liiis  Mini  upon  the  pond. 
And  toucliid    it    uiih    iliis   drowsy 
spell. 

For  here  the  nnising  soul  is  merged 

In  moods  no  other  scene  can  bring, 
And    sweeter   seems    the    air    when 
scourged 
With    wandering    wild-iu-es"    ninr 
nmring. 

One  ripple  streaks  the  little  lake. 
Sliarj)    purple-blue;     the     birches, 
thin 
And    silvery,    crowd    the    eilge,    yel 
l)reak 
To  let  a  straying  sunbeam  in. 

How  came  we  tiirough   the  yielding 
wood. 
That    dav.    to    this    sweet-rustling 
shore? 
Oh,  tin-re  together  while  we  stood, 
\  butterfly  was  wafted  o'er. 

In  slpe|»y  light ;  and  even  now 

His  grimmeriiur  be;iiiiy  -loth  r.nirn 

I'lion  me  wiien  llie  soft  winds  blow, 
.Vud     lilies    t<iu:ii.l     ilie     siudight 
yearn. 

The  vii'MlnL' wood '.'     .\nd  vet  'twas 

■  loth 

To  yield  unto  our  b:ii.py  niareh: 

Doubtful   ll   seeiued.  al    lluies,   if  both 

Could  pass  Its  green,  elastic  arch. 


LATHROP. 


335 


Yet  there,  at  last,  upon  the  marge 
We  found  ourselves,  and  there,  be- 
hold. 
In  hosts  the  lilies,  white  and  large, 
Lay  close   with   hearts   of   downy 
gold! 

Deep  in  the  weedy  waters  spread 

The  rootlets  of  the  placid  bloom: 
■So  sprung  my  love's  tlower,  that  was 
bred 
In   deep   still    waters    of    heart's- 
gloom. 

So  spnmg;  and  so  that  morn  was 
nursed 

To  live  in  light,  and  on  the  pool 
Wherein  its  roots  were  deep  immersed 

Burst  into  beauty  broad  and  cool. 

Pew  words  were  said;  a  moment 
passed ; 

I  know  not  how  it  came  —  that  awe 
4nd  ardor  of  a  glance  that  cast 

Our  love  in  imiversal  law. 

But  all  at  once  a  bird  sang  loud. 
From    dead  twigs  of  the  gleamy 
beech ; 
His  notes  dropped  dewy,  as  from  a 
cloud, 
A  blessing  on  our  married  speech. 

Ah,  Love!  how  fresh  and  rare,  even 
now, 
That  moment  and  that  mood  re- 
turn 
Upon  me,  when  the  soft  winds  blow. 
And    lilies    toward    the    sunlight 
yearn  1 


SAILOR'S  SONG. 

The    sea    goes   up,   the  sky  comes 

down. 
Oh.  can  you  spy  the  ancient  town, — 
The  granite  hills  so  hard  and  gray. 
That  ril)  the  liind  ImOiIikI  the  bay  ? 
O  ye  ho,  hoys!    .Spread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 


Three  years  ?     Is  it  so  long  that  we 
Have  lived  upon  the  lonely  sea? 
Oh,   often  1  thought  we'd  see  the 

town. 
When  the  sea  went  up,  and  the  sky 
came  down. 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 
Fair  winds,  boys;  send  her  home! 
O  ye  ho! 

Even  the  winter  winds  would  rouse 
A  memory  of  my  father's  house; 
For  round  his  windows  and  his  door 
They  made  the  same  deep,  mouthless 
roar. 
O  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys:  send  her  home! 
O  ye  ho ! 

And   when    the    summer's    breezes 

beat, 
Methought  I  saw  the  sunny  street 
Where  stood  my  Kate.     Beneath  her 

hand 
She  gazed  far  out,  far  out  from  land. 
O  ye  ho,  boys!     Sjirfad  her  win.i^s! 
Fair  winds,  boys:  send  her  home! 
O  ye  ho! 

Farthest  away,  I  oftenest  dreamed 
That    1    was    with    her.      Then,    it 

seemed 
A  single  stride  the  ocean  wide 
Had  bridged  and  brought  me  to  her 
side. 
O  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  horn* ! 
O  ye  ho ! 


But  tliough  so  near  we're  drawing, 

now, 
'T  is  farther  off —  I  know  not  how. 
We  sail  and  sail :  we  see  no  home. 
Would  we  into  the  port  were  come! 
O  ye  bo.  boys!     Sjiread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys:  send  her  home! 
Oyeho! 

.\t    night,   the  same  stars  o'er  the 

mast : 
The  mast  sways  roimd  —  however  fast 


336 


LAZARUS. 


We     fly  —  still     swnys    ami     swiiij^ 

aroiind 
One  scanty  circle's  starry  bound. 
< )  yi' lio,  hoysl     Sjircad  her  wiii2;s! 
Fair  winds,  boys:  send  lit  r  liouu'I 
O  ye  ho! 

Ah,  many  a  moiitli  those  stars  have 

shone. 
And  many  a  ^'oidt-n  inoni  has  llown, 
■iiiirt-  lliat  so  soleniM  liajipv  iiiDrn. 
\Vlirn.  I  away,  uiy  bal>e  was  born. 
<>  y  ho.  boys!     Spread  lier  \\iiii;s! 
Fair  winds,  ijoys:  send  Inr  hoirn-! 
()  ye  ho! 

And,  tliouKli  so  near  we  re  drawinij 

now. 
'T  is  farther  ofT  —  1  know  not  how  — 
1  would  not  auirht  amiss  liad  eouir 
To  bal>e  or  mother  tlicre.  at  iionicl 
()  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wine;s! 
l^air  winds,  boys:  send  Iht  home! 
()  ye  ho! 

"I'is  but  a  seemiu;.;;  swiftly  rusli 
TIk-  st'as,  beneath.     1  iiear  the  crush 
Of  foamy  ridpes  'yainst  the  prow. 
Lou;rin;iontspeeds(he  briM'ze,  1  know. 

o  ye  lio.  lioys!     Spread  lu-r  win;,'s! 

Fair  winds,  boys:  send  lier  houirl 
o  yr  iio! 

Tatienee,    my    mates!     Though    not 

this  eve, 
We  c;isl  our  anchor,  yet  believe, 


If  but  the  wiinl  holds,  short  the  run' 
We'll  sail  in  with  to-morrow's  sim. 

O  ye  ho.  boys!     Spread  her  winps! 

Fair  winds,  bt)vs:  send  her  homu! 
Oycho! 


A  FACE   IX   THE  STltKET. 

Pooh,  withered   face,  that  yet  was 
once  so  fair, 
rirown  ashen-old  in  the  wild  fires 

of  lust  — 
Thy  star-like  beauty,  dimmed  with 

earthly  ilust, 
Yet  briMtiiin;,'  of  a  purer  nativ(>  air; 
They  who.  whilom,  cursed  vultures, 
sought  a  share 
Of    thy    dead,  womanhood,    their 

greeil  unjust 
Have  satisfied,  have  stripped  and 

l.'ft  thee  liar.-. 
Still,  like  a  leaf  warped  by  the  au- 
tumn gust. 
And  driving  to  the  end,  thou  wrnpp'at 
in  flame 
And   perfiune  all  thy    Indlow-eyed 
tlecay. 
Feigning  on   liiose  Liniy  cheeks  tl>e 
Itlusli  that  Shame 
To(dc  with  In-r  wiit-u  she  (led  long 
sinc<'  away. 
Ah   (lodi   rain    tire   ujion   this   foul- 

souled  city 
That  gives  such  dtaili,  uud  spares  its 
mill. —  for  pity! 


Emma   Lazarus. 


'  From  Scetim  iu  thf  U'nxl.  Snf/firnti'il  liy 
lliilii  rt  Srii  u  mil  (I » . ) 

II.  E.tS.t  V  /•  fltOSPECr. 

II  Air.,  free,  cli-ar  heavens!  nbovp  our 
heads  a^aiii. 
With  whlte-wlnged  el«»udH  that  nu'lt 
hefon-  tin-  sun; 
Hall,  ;,'ood    .irri'u   earth!  with   l)los- 
Honi^.  '^rass  and  grain: 
O'er  the  soft   ryi-  what  silvery  rip- 
ylef  riui ! 


What   lawny  shadows!    Slowly  w« 

liave  won 
This   Idirh  hill's  loj*:  on  the  wo(m1's 

c-dgc  \\c  stand. 
While  like  a  sea  belr»w  us  rolls  the 

land. 
The  nii-adows  blush  with  clover,  and 

Ihe  air 
I»  honeyed  with  its  keen  buL  spicy 

sini'll: 
In  sllenee  i^razetlir  kini'.  hut  every- 

wbrre 


LAZARUS. 


337 


Pipe  the  glad  birds  that  in  the  for- 
est dwell; 
Where    hearths     are    set    curled 
wreaths  of  vapor  tell ; 
Life's  grace  and  promise  win  the  soul 

again ; 
Hope  floods  the  heart  like  sunshine 
aff<^r  rain. 


The  wood  is  past,  and  tranquil  mead- 
ows wide, 

Bathed  in  bright  vapor,  stretch  on 
evei7  side. 


[From  Scenen  in  the  Wood.     Suggested  by 
Robert  Schumann.] 

NIGHT. 

White  stars  begin  to  prick  the  wan 
blue  sky, 
The  trees  arise,  thick,  black  and 
tall :  between 
Their   slim,  dark  boles,  gray,   film- 
winged  gnats  that  fly 
Against  the  failing  western  red  are 

seen. 
The  footpaths  dumb    with    moss 
have  lost  their  green. 
Mysterious    shadows    settle    every- 
where, 
A  passionate  murmur  trembles  in  the 
air. 

Sweet  scents  wax  richer,  fresheneil 
with  cool  dews, 
The    whole    vast   forest   seems   to 
Ijreathe,  to  sigh 
\Yit\i  rustle,  lium  and  whisper  that 
confuse 
The  listening  ear,  blent   with  the 

fitful  cry 
Of  some  belated  bird.     In  the  far 
sky. 
Throbbing  with  stars,   there  stirs  a 

weird  unrest. 
Strange  joy,  akin  to  pain,  fulfils  the 
breast  — 

A  longing  fjorn  of  fears  and  promises, 

A  wild  desire,  a  hope  that  heeds  no 

bound. 

\  ray  of  moonlight  struggling  through 

the  trees 

Startles  us  like  a  phantom;  on  tlic 

ground 
Fall    curious   shades;   white   glory 
spreads  aromid ; 


A  MARCH   VIOLET. 

Black  boughs  against  a  pale  clear 

sky. 
Slight  mists  of  cloud-wreaths  floating 

by: 
Soft  sunlight,  gray-blue  smoky  air,  ; 
Wet  thawing  snows  on  hillsides  bare; 
Loud  streams,  moist  sodden  earth; 

below 
(^uick  seedlings  stir,  rich  juices  flow 
Through  frozen  veins  of  rigid  wood. 
And  the  whole  forest  bestirs  in  bud. 
No  longer  stark  the  branches  spread 
An  iron  network  overhead. 
Albeit  naked  still  of  green; 
Through    this    soft,   lustrous    vapor 

seen 
On   budding   boughs  a    warm   flush 

glows, 
With  tints  of  purple  and  pale  rose. 
I^reathing  of  spring,  the  delicate  air 
Lifts  playfully  the  loosend  hair 
To  kiss  tlie  cool  brow.     Let  us  rest 
In  this  bright,  sheltered  nook,  now 

blest 
\Vitli  broad  noon  sunshine  over  all. 
Though  here  .June's  leafiest  shadows 

fall. 
Young  grass  sprouts  here.     Look  up ! 

the  sky 
Is  veiled  by  woven  greenery. 
Fresh  little  folded  l.-aves— the  first. 
And  go]<lcncr  than  green,  they  burst 
Their  thick  full   buds  and  take  the 

breeze. 
Here,  when  November  stripped  the 

trees. 
I  came  to  wrestle  with  a  grief: 
Solace  I  sought  not,  nor  relief. 
I  shed  IK)  tears.  I  craved  no  grace 
1  fain  would  see  (Jrief  f;ii'(>  to  face, 
Fathom  her  awful  eyes  at  length. 
Measure    my    strength    against    her 

.strength, 
I  wondered  why  the  Preacher  saith, 
"  Like  as  the  grass  that  withereth." 


338 


LAZARUS. 


The    late,    dose   blades  still   waved 

iiroiiiii! ; 
I  plutoht'ii  ;i  lianilf ul  from  the  ground. 
*' He  inotks  us  crui'lly,"  1  said: 
"The    frail    herb   lives    and   she    is 

dead." 
1  lay  dinnb.  sightless,  deaf  as  she; 
The  long  slow  hours  passed  over  me, 
1  saw  (Jrief  face  to  face;  I  know 
Tii(>  very  form  aiitl  traits  of  Woe. 
I    drained    liie   galled    dregs    of  the 

draught 
SheotTered  me:  I  eouldhave  laugheil 
In  irony  of  sheer  despair, 
Altliougii  1  eould  not  weep.    The  air 
Thickent'(l    with    twilight    shadows 

dim: 
I  rose  and  left.     I  knew  eaeh  Vnwh 
Of  these  great  trees,  eaeli   gnarled, 

rough  root 
Piercing  the  <-lay,  eaeh  cone  of  fruit 
They  bear  in  autumn. 

What  blooms  here, 
Polling  the  liom-ytMl  atmosjjlK're 
Willi  taint.  (Irlicious  tragtancics, 
Kn-ighicd  willi  blessed  int'mories  ? 
'I'hr  earliest  March  violet, 
Dear  as  the  image  of  Hegret, 
And  beautiful  as  Hope.     Again 
I'ast    visions    thrill   and   haunt    my 

brain, 
Throuiih  tears  I  see  the  noddingliead, 
Tlie  purpl<'  and  tbe  gn-en  dispread. 
Here,    wlnre  I    nursed   despair  that 

morn. 
The  )ir<'inise  of  fresh  joy  is  b«)rn, 
Arrayed  in  sober  colors  still, 
lint  iiierejni,'  tin-  gray  mould  to  (ill 
Willi  vague  sweet  illtlueliee  tbe  :iir, 
To  lift    the   beart's   dead    weight  of 

eare. 
Longings  and  golden  dreams  to  bring 
VNitli  joyous  pliantasics  of  spring. 


liEMEMDEli. 

Kkme.mbki!  Him,  the  only  One. 

Now,  ere  the  years  How  by, — 
Now,  while  tbe  smile  is  on  iby  lip. 

The  light  within  thine  eye. 
Now,  ere  for  thee  ilie  sun  have  lost 

Its  glory  and  its  light. 
And    earth    rejoice    thee    not    witn 
tlowers. 

Nor  with  the  stars  the  night. 
Now,  while    thou   lovest   earth,  be- 
cause 

She  is  so  wondrous  fair 
With  daisies  and  with  primroses, 

And  suidit.  waving  air; 
And  nut  because  lur  bosom  holds 

Tiiy  dearest  an<l  Iby  best. 
And  some  day  will  thyself  infold 

In  calm  and  peaci-fid  rest. 
Now,  while  thou  lovesi  violets, 

Hecaiise  mid  grass  I  hey  wave. 
And  not  because  liiey  bloom  upon 

.Some  early-shapen  grave. 
Now.    wliile   thou   lovest    lreiiiblin;j; 
stars, 

Kut  just  because  they  shine, 
And  not  because  they're  nearer  one 

Who  never  can  be  thine. 
Now,    whih-     thou     lovest     nuisic's 
strains, 

IJecause  they  cheer  thy  heart. 
And  not  because  from  aching  eyes 

They  make  the  tear-drops  start. 
Now.  whilst  ibou  lovest  all  on  earth 

.And  deemest  all  will  last. 
IJefore  Iby  bopc  is  vanisbed  <|uile, 

.\nil  every  joy  lias  ].ast  : 
l\emenil)er  lllm.  tbe  only  ( )ne. 

Before  tin-  days  dra«  nigh 
When    thou    shall    bave    no   jfij-   In 
them. 

And  jiraying,  yeani  to  d:'\ 


LELAND.  —  LEYDEN. 


339 


Charles  Godfrey  Leland. 


MINE   OWN. 

A.ND  oh,  the  longing,  burning  eyes! 

And  oh,  the  gleaming  hair 
Which  waves  around  me,  night  and 
day, 

O'er  chamber,  hall,  and  stair! 

And  oh,  the  step,  half-dreamt,  half 
heard ! 

And  oh,  the  laugliter  low ! 
And  mi^niories  of  merriment 

Which  faded  long  ago! 

Oh,  art  thou  Sylph,— or  truly  Self,— 

Or  either  at  thy  choice  ? 
Oh,  speak  in  breeze  or  beating  heart, 

But  let  me  hear  thy  voice ! 

"Oh,  some  do  call  me  Laughter,  love; 

And  some  do  call  me  Sin : ' ' 
"  And  they  may  call  thee  what  they 
will, 

So  I  thy  love  may  win." 

"  And  some  do  call  me  Wantonness, 
And  some  do  call  me  Play : ' ' 


"  Oh,  they  might  call  thee  what  the^ 
woidd 
If  thou  wert  mine  ahvay!" 

"  And  some  do  call  me  Sorrow,  love, 
And  some  do  call  me  Tears, 

And  some  there   be   who  name  me 
Hope, 
And  some  that  name  me  Fears. 

"  And  some  do  call  me  Gentle  Heart 
And  some  Forget  fulness : " 

"  And  if  thou  com'st  as  one  or  all. 
Thou  comest  but  to  bless!" 

"And  some  do  call  me  Life,  sweet- 
heart, 

And  some  do  call  me  Deatli; 
And  he  to  whom  llie  two  are  one 

Has  won  my  heart  and  faith." 

She  twined  her  white  arms  round  his 
neck : — 

The  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
"  And  if  I  live  or  if  I  die, 

We'll  never  part  again." 


John   Leyden. 


ODE   TO  AN  INDIAN  COIN. 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine! 

What  vanity  has  l)rouglit  thee  here? 
How  can  I  Ionc  to  see  thee  sliini! 
So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so 

dear? — 
The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear, 
For  twilight  conveise,  arm  in  arm; 
The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine 
ear 
Whom    mirth    and    nuisic   wont   to 
charm. 

By  Cherical's  dark  wandering  streams. 
Where   cane-tufts  shadow   all  the 
wild, 


Sweet     visions    haunt    my    waking 
dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  adiild. 
Of  castled  I'ocks  stupemlous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Kdeu's  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friend- 
ship sniili'd, 
Uncursed  In  iluc,  vil<'  ycll.iv     lave! 

Fade,  day-dreams  swecl     from  mem- 
ory fade! — 
The  iierished  bliss  of  youth's  first 
prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played. 
Kevives  no  more  in  after  time. 
Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 


840 


LODGE. 


I  liastf  to  an  untiiiu'ly  !?rave; 
'l"iii'   dariii:,'   ihiniglits  that  soaivil 
e>ul)li]iie 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave, 

Slave  of  the  mine '.thy  yellow  light 
Gleams    baleful    as    the  tomb-tire 
drear. 
A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 
My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer; 
Ilcr  eyt's  arc  dim  with  many  a  tear. 
That    oni-e    were    guiding    stars    to 
mine: 
Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many 
a  fear! 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

Knr  Ihcc.  for  thee,  vile  yi'llow  slave, 
1  left  a  heart  lliaL  loved  me  true! 


I  crossed  tlie  tedious  ocean-wave. 
To  roam  in  climes  mikind  and  new 
The  cold  wind  of  the  strangiT  blew 

Chill  on  my  wiihereil  heart:  the  grave 
Dark  and  uniimtdy  met  my  view,— 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  1 

Ha!  comesl    thou    now  so    late    to 
mock 
A   wanderer's  banished  heart  for- 
lorn. 
Now    that   his   frame   the   lightning 
shock 
Of  sun-rays   tijit    with    death    has 

borne  ".' 
From  love,  from  fricudsliip,  coun- 
try, lorn. 
To  memory's  foinl  regret,^  the  prey, 
\'ile  sla\e,  lliy  yellow  drt)ss  1  scom 
Go  mix  thee  with  ihy  kiu«lred  clay  I 


Thomas  Lodge. 


nosALiyp.. 

LikK  to  the  clear  in  highest  sidiere. 
Where  all  impi'rial  glory  shines, 

( )f  self-same  color  is  her  hair. 
Whether  imfolded  or  in  twines: 

Iler  eyes  are  sai>phire9  set  in  snow, 
Uefiiiing  heaven  by  every  wink; 

The  gods  do  fear  when  as  they  glow. 
And  1  do  tremble  when  1  think. 

Il-r  cliccks    are    like   the    blushing 
cloud. 
That  beaut  ides  .^uroni's  face; 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud, 
I'liat    I'liii'bus'  smiling  looks  doth 
grace. 

Her  llp.s  are  like  two  budded  roses. 
Whom    ranks    of    lilies    neighbor 
nigh; 


\\  ilhin   which   bounds  she  balm  en 
closes. 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity. 

Iler  lU'ck  like  to  a  stately  tower. 
Where  love  himself  imprisoned  lie.«, 

I'o  watch  for  glances,  every  hour. 
From  her  divine  and  .sacreil  eyes. 


Willi  orient  i)earl.  with  ruby  red. 

Willi  marble  white,  with  .sapphire 
blue, 
Ibr  body  everywhere  Is  Uti\, 

Vet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view . 

Natiu'c  hcrs»*lf  her  .shape  admiri's; 

The  gods  are  woumled  in  her  siglit: 
And  !,o\c  foisakes  his  he.ivenlv  tires. 

And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth 
light. 


LOGAN  —  LONGFELLOW. 


341 


John   Logan. 


THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,    beauteous    stranger    of    the 
grove ! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rmal  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 


Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 
Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 

Hast  tliou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  marli  the  rolhng  year  ? 


i)t'lightfal  visitant!  with  thee 
I  iiuil  the  time  of  flowers, 

And  liear  tlie  soimd  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 


The  schoolboy,  wandering  through 
the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay. 
Starts  thy  most  curious  voice  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom 
Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 

An  annual  guosl  in  othei  lands. 
Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird!  thy  bower  is  ever  green. 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year ! 

Oh,  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee! 

We'd  make  with  joyful  wing. 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  spring. 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

Saixt  'Augustine  !  ^vell  hast  thou 
said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
Beneath    our   feet    each    deed  of 
shame  ! 


All 


things,     each    day's 


common 
events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 
Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  as- 
cend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design. 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less: 

The  revel  of  the  niddy  w  ine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess: 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things: 
Tht>  strife  for  triumph  more  than 
tnilh: 
The    hardening  of    the  heart,  that 
bnuys 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 


All  thovights  of  ill:  all  evil  deeds. 
That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  oi 
ill: 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will;  — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled 
tlown 

Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 
In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 

The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar; 

But  we  have  ffcl  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more. 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  tinu-. 

The  might v  pyramids  of  stone 

That  "wedge-like  cleave  the  desert 
airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  ami  bettei  known. 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  hustions  to  the  skies. 

Are  crossed  l>y  patbways.  that  appeal 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 


342 


LONO  FELLOW. 


The  iR'ights  by  great  men  reached 
and  ki'pt 
Were  not  atUiined  by  sudden  llight, 
But  they,    while    their  companions 
slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast 
eyes. 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocablo  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last, 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


ITEAllIXESS. 

O  LITTLE  feet  !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and 
fears 
Must  aihe  and  bleed  beneath  your 
load ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  ceasi',  and  rest  begin. 
Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road. 

O  little  hands !  that  weak  or  strong. 
Have  still  to  serve  or  ride  so  long. 

Ilavr  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask; 
I,  who  so  nuich  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  f«'llow-men, 

Am  wt-ary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

o  litili-  lu^arts!  that  throb  and  ])eat 
With  siicli  imi>atient.  feverish  he.il, 

Siicji  jiniitl'^^  autl  strong  d<'>-iii'>: 
Miiif  Ilial   M)  long  has   glowed    and 

bunn-d, 
With  p.'ussions  Into  jishcs  turned 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  (ires, 

<)  little  .souls!  JUS  pun-  and  while 
Slid  (Tyst.illiiir  a-  rays  <if  light 

ninci  from   he.iven,   their  sourc<i 
divine; 
U<fra<-i«-d  through  the  ndst  of  years, 
Ilnw  red  my  silting  sun  ai)prars, 

iiow  lurid  looks  this  sold  of  mine! 


THE  MEETING. 

.Vktki{  s«)  long  an  al)sence 

At  last  we  meet  again; 
Does  the  mti'ling  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain? 

The  tree  of  life  hjis  been  shaken, 
And  but  few  of  us  linger  now. 

Like  the  l*roi>het"s  two  or  three  her 
ries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppermost  bough. 

We  cordiahy  greet  each  other 

In  the  old  familiar  tone; 
And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say 
it. 

How  old  and  gray  he  is  grown  I 

We  speak  of  a  Merry  Christm;is, 
Ami  many  a  happy  New  Year; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 

We  speak  of  friends  and  their   for- 
tunes. 

And  of  what  tiiey  did  and  said. 
Till  the  (lead  alone  seem  living. 

And  tin-  living  alone  seem.dead. 

And  at  last  we  hardly  distinpiush 
Hitwi'cn  till'  ghosts  and  the  guests; 

And  a  mist  anil  .-liadow  of  sa<lnes3 
Steals  over  our  miTi  iisi  ji-sis. 


STA  Y,  ST  A  )    AT  HOME,  .MY  HE  Aim, 
ASn   It  E.ST. 

Stay,  stay  at   home,  my  hi  art.  and 

rest ; 
Home-kcfjiing  In-arls  are  haiipiest, 
For  those  llial  wandt-r  they  know  not 

wIkTi' 
An-  fidl  of  trouble  and  full  of  care; 
To  .slay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  bome^iik  and  dlstres.seil, 
Tlie\  waiiier  east,  lliey  wander  west, 
,\nd  are  ballled  ami  beaten  and  l)lown 

about 
By   the  winds  of   the  wildpnie.s.s  of 

doubt ; 
To  slay  at  home  Is  best. 


LONGFELLOW. 


343 


Then  stay  at  home,   my  heart,  and 

rest  •• 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and 

fly, 

A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky : 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


NATURE. 

A.S  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is 

o'er. 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child 

to  bed, 
Half-willinc;,  half-reluctant   to   be 

led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on 

the  floor, 
Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open 

door; 
Nor  wholly    reassured    and    com- 
forted 
By  promises    of    others    in    tlieir 

stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may 

not  please  him  more; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes 

away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by 

the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we 

go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or 

stay. 
Being  too  full  of  sleep   to  under- 

strnd 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends 

the  what  we  know. 


THE  TIDES. 

I  HAW  the  long  line  of  the  vacant 

shore. 
The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon 

the  sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on 

every  hand, 
As  if  the  ebbing  tide  woiUd  flow  no 

more. 


Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than 
before. 

The  ocean   breathe,  and   its  great 
breast  expand ; 

And  hurrying  came  on  the  defence- 
less land 

The  insurgent  waters  with  tumul- 
tuous roar. 
All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I 
said. 

Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant 
joy  of  song. 

Have  ebbed  from  me  forever!  Sud- 
denly o'er  me 
They  swept  again  from  their   deep 
ocean-bed, 

And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and 
strong 

As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth, 
upbore  me. 


MAIDEN  AND   WEATHERCOCK. 
MAIDEN. 

0  Weathercock    on   the  village 

spire. 
With  your  golden    feathers    all    on 

fire. 
Tell  me,  what  can  you  see  from  your 

perch 
Above  there  over  the  tower  of  the 

church  ? 

AVEATIIEKCOCK. 

1  can  see  the  roofs  and  the  streets  be- 

low, 
And  the  people  moving  to  and  fro, 
And  beyond,  without  either  roof  or 

street. 
The  great  salt  sea,  and  the   fishep* 

man's  fleet. 

I  can  see  a  .ship  come  sailing  in 
Beyond  tho  headlands  and  harbor  of 

Lynn, 
And  a  young  man  standing  on  the 

d(!ck. 
With    a   silken    kerchief    round  hii 

neck. 

Now  he  is  pressing  it  to  his  lips, 
AiiA  now  he  is  kissing  his  finger-tipa, 


841 


LONQFELLOW, 


And  now  lie  is  lifting  and  waving  liis 

kaml, 
And  blowing  tlie  Icisses  toward  tlio 

land. 


Ah !  that  is  thf  ship  from  over  tlie  sfa. 
That  isbringiui;  my  lover  bark  to  nif, 
IJringing  my  lovt-r  so  fond  and  true, 
Wiio  dot's  not  change  with  the  wind 
ILke  you- 

WKATIIKKCOCK. 

If  I  rliangf  with  all  the  winds  that 

i)low. 
It  is  only  bpoausp  they  made  me  so. 
And  peoplt'  would  think  it  wondrous 

strange. 
If     I,    a    wcathorrork,    should    not 

chan^'f. 

O  pretty  maiden,  so  fine  and  fair, 

With  your  drt'amy  cyi-s  and  your 
goldi'ii  hair, 

Wlien  you  and  your  lover  meet  to- 
day 

You  will  tliauk  me  for  looking  some 
other  wavl 


The  iliirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart 

Ah  me! 
They  have  forgotten  tlie  pathway  to 

my  door! 
Someihiiig    is    gone    from  nature 

since  they  died. 
And  summer  is  not  summer    iioi 

can  be. 


TIIUF.K    FlilF.SnS   OF  MISK. 


THE    TWO  ANOELS. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of 

Deatli. 
I'assed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morn 

ing  Itroke; 
The  da^\n   was  on  tlieir  faces,  am 

l)elie;ith. 

The  sond^re  houses   liearsi'd   with 
plumes  of  smoke. 

Tlieir  attitude  and  asi>ecl   were  the 
same. 
Alike  their  ft>atures  aiiti  their  robe* 
of  white. 
Hut  one  was  crowned  with  amarantl; 
as  witii  llanie, 
,\nd  otie  with  asphodels,  like  flakes 
of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  tlnir  celestial 
way : 
Then  said    I,   with    deep  fear  autl 
doubt  ojipressed. 


ni        1  11     •  1  ..1       '*  IJeat  not    so  Inud,   my  heart,   lest 

The  doors  are  all  wide  op<'n;  at  the  tl  ou  betniv 


gate 


The  place  wiicre  thy  beloved  are  at 
rest!" 


Th»;  blossomed  lilacs  coimterfelt  a 

blaze. 
And    seem    to   wanu   tlie    air;    a    a,„|  Ji,.  who  wore  the  crown  of  as- 


dreamy  liazt 
Ilaii^s  ii'ir  the  Hrighton  meadows 

like  a  fate; 
And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides 

elat4'. 
The  tl(MKlcd  (  iiarle-^,  as  in  tin-  bai>- 

pier  I  lays. 
Writes  tin-  last  letter  of  his  name, 

and  btuys 


phodels. 
Descending,  at   my  door  began   to 

knock. 
And  my  soul  sank  within  m»',  as  in 

wells 
'I'he  waters  sink   before  an   earth- 

(juake's  shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  au'ony. 


Ills   restless  Ht<*ps,  a.s  if  comp.ll.d  1      'ilic  terror  and   llir  tremor  ai\d  the 


to  wall, 

I  also   w  jiii ;  but   they  w  ill  come  no 
nutre, 
Tho««*  friends  of  niin'-,  wliosc  pres- 
ence Hati»ll<;(l 


pain, 
Tiiat  oft  befon-  bad  filled  or  haunte<l 
me, 
,\n<l   now  returned  with  threefold 
Btrenglb  again. 


LONGFELLOW. 


345 


The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly 
guest, 
And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard 
God's  voice; 
And,   knowing  whatsoe'er  he    sent 
was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  re- 
joice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the 
house  with  light, 
"  My   errand    is    not   Death,    but 
Life,"  he  said; 
And  ere  he  answered,  passing  out  of 
sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'Twas  at  thy  door,  O  friend,  and  not 
at  mine. 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine 
wreath, 
Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice 
divine. 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound 
like  death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden 
gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair 
and  thin; 
And  softly  from    that  hushed  and 
darkened  room. 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one 
went  in. 

All  is  of  God!    If  He  but  wave  his 
hand. 
'Che   mists  collect,  the  rain  falls 
thifk  and  loud. 
Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and 
land. 
Lo!  He  looks  back  from  the  de- 
parting cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are 
His; 
Without  His  leave,  they  pass  no 
threshold  o'er; 


Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  be- 
lieving this, 
Against  His  messengers  to  shut  the 
door  ? 


„V 


A   DAY  OF  SUNSHINE, 

0  GIFT  of  (Jod !     C)  perfect  day: 
Whereon   shall   no  man   work,   but 

play 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me. 
Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be ! 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every 
vein, 

1  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  nuich. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  sympliouies; 
1  see  the  branches  downward  bent. 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky. 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea,  the 

sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleon. 

Towards  yonder  cloud-lands  in  the 

west. 
Towards  yonder  Lslands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds!  and  waft  through  all 
the  rooms 

The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry- 
blooms  ! 

Blow,  winds!  and  bond  within  my 
reach 

'I'lic  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach! 

()  Life  and  Love!    O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is 

song! 
( )  heart  of  man !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 


S46 


L  0X0  FELL  0  W—  LOVE  LA  CE. 


Samuel  Longfellow. 


rno.v  MI  UK  TO  blossom. 

XOVEMRER. 

The  (lead  leaves,  their  rieh  mosaics 
Of  olive  and  gold  and  l)ro\vn. 

Had  laid  on  the  rain-wet  pavement, 
Tiirougli  all  the  embowered  town. 

They  were   washed   by  the  autumn 

tenii)e.st, 

They  wen-  trod  by  hurrying  feet, 

And  I  in-  maids  came  out  with  their 

l>e.soms 

And  swept  them  into  the  street, 

To  be  crushed  and  lost  forever, 
'Neath   the  wheels    in  the    black 
nnre  lost; 

The  Summer's  precious  darlings. 
She  nurtured  at  such  cost! 


O  words  that  have  fallen  from  inel 
()  goltlen  tluiughts  and  true  I 

Must  1  see  in  the  leaves,  a  symbol 
Of  the  fate  which  awaiteth  you  ? 


Again  has  come  the  spring-time, 
With  the  crocus's  golden  bloom. 

With  the  smell   of  the  fresh-turned 
earth-mould, 
And  the  violet's  perfume. 

O  gardener!  tell  me  the  secn-t 
Of  thy  flowers  so  rare  and  sweet ! 

"  I  have  only  enrii-hed  my  garden 
Willi   the    black    mire    from    the 
street!" 


Richard   Lovelace. 


TO  LUCASTA,  OX  (iOlNG   BEYOM> 
THE  SEAS. 

Ik  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  fn»m  thee; 
Or  thai  w  lien  I  am  gone 
\'ou  or  I  wen-  alone; 
Then,  my  l.inasia.  might  I  cnive 
Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swal- 
lowing wave. 

riiough    seas    and    laml    betwixt     us 
both. 
Our  faith  and  troth, 
I^ike  sejiarated  souls. 
All  lime  and  spaee  <-i>ntrols: 
Above  the  binhest  spherr  we  meet 
I'liseen.  unknown,  and   greet   as  an- 
gels greet. 

8<»  then  we  do  anticipate 
Our  aflrr-falf. 
And  an-  aliv*-  in  the  skie.s. 
If  thii.<«  our  lips  ant!  eyoH 


Can  sprak  like  spirit-s  imconfinod 
In  beaxiii.  tlieir  earthly  bodies  left 
behind. 


TO  i.n.isT.i,  o.v  coisn   no 
wahs. 


THE 


Ti.i.i,  nir  not.  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

Thai  from  thi-  lumneni- 
Of  thy  eliasle  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

TriK',  a  new  mistress  now  I  eha.sR, 

Til.'  first  foe  ill  tlic  li.-ld; 
And  with  a  slnmger  faitb  t'lnbrace 

.\  sword,  a  liorsf.  a  shield. 

Vet  fbis  ineonstan<-y  is  such 

.As  you,  too.  sball  .adore, 
I  couhl  not  love  thee,  dear,  ho  much, 

I.ove<l  I  not  honor  more. 


LOVER. 


347 


Samuel  Lover. 


oh;  watch  you  well  by  day- 
light. 

Oh!  watch  you  well  by  daylight, 

By  daylight  may  you  fear, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness  — 

The  angels  then  are  near; 
For  Heaven  the  sense  bestoweth, 

Our  waking  life  to  keep, 
But  tender  mercy  showeth, 

To  guard  us  in  our  sleep. 
Then  watch  you  well  by  daylight. 

By  ilaylight  may  you  fear, 
But  keep  no  Avatch  in  darkness  — 

The  angels  tlien  are  near. 

Oh !  watch  you  well  in  pleasure  — 

For  pleasure  oft  betrays, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  sorrow. 

When  joy  witlidraws  its  rays: 
For  in  the  hour  of  sorrow, 

As  in  the  darkness  drear, 
To  Heaven  entrust  the  morrow. 

For  the  angels  then  are  near. 
O  watch  you  well  by  daylight. 

By  daylight  may  you  fear, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness  — 

The  angels  then  are  near. 


THE   CHILD  ASD    THE  AUTUMN 
LFAF. 

Dow.\  by  Xho  river's  bank  I  strayed 

Upon  an  antunm  day; 
Beside  the  fading  forest  there, 

I  saw  a  child  at  play. 
She  played  among  the  yellow  leaves — 

The  leaves  tbat  once  wei-e  green, 
And  flung  upon  tlK-  ])assing  stream 

What  once  liad  blooming  been: 
Oh!  deeply  did  it  tnncii  my  heart 

To  see  that  child  at  play; 
It  was  the  sweet  unconscious  sport 

Of  childhood  with  decay. 

Fair  child,    if    by   this   stream    you 
stray, 
Wlien  after  years  go  by. 
The  scene  tbat  makes  thy  childhood's 
sport. 
May  wake  tliy  age's  sigh: 


■When  fast  you  see  around  you  fall 

The  summer's  leafy  pride. 
And  mark  the  river  hurrying  on 

Its  ne'er  returning  tide; 
Then  may  you  feel  in  pensive  mood 

That  life's  a  siunmcr  dream; 
And  man,  at  last,  forgotten  falls  — 

A  leaf  upon  the  stream. 


THE  ANGEVS    WING. 

When  by  the  evening's  (piiet  light 

There  sit  two  silent  lovers. 
They   say,  while    in    such    tranriuii 
plight. 
An  angel  roimd  tlicm  hovers; 
And  furtlier  still  old  legends  tell,  — 
The  first  who  breaks  the  silent  spell. 
To  say  a  soft  and  pleasing  thing. 
Hath  felt  the  passing  angel's  wing! 

Thus,  a  musing  minstrql  strayed 

By  the  summer  ocean, 
Gazing  on  a  lovely  maid, 

With  a  bard's  devotion:  — 
Yet  this  love  he  never  spoke, 
Till  now  the  silent  spell  he  broke;  — 
The  hidden  fire  to  flame  did  spring, 
Fanned  by  the  passing  angel's  wing! 

"  I  have  loved  thee  well  and  long. 
With  love  of  heaven's  own  mak- 
ing !  — 
This  is  not  a  poet's  song. 

But  a  true  heart's  speaking, — 
I  will  love  tbee,  still,  untired!" 
He  felt  —  he  s])oke  —  as  one  inspired. 
The  words   did   from  Truth's  foun- 
tain spring. 
Upwaken'd  by  the  angel's  wing. 

Silence  o'er  tbe  maiden  fell. 

Ilcr  beauty  lovelier  making:  — 
And  by  her  itiusb.  be  knew  full  well 

The  dawn  of  love  was  breaking. 
It  came  like  sunshine  o'er  his  heart! 
He  felt  that  they  should  never  part. 
She    s|>nke — and     oh!  —  tlie    lovelj 

tiling 
Had  fell  the  passing  angel's  wing. 


848 


LOWELL. 


YIELD   yOT,    Tlior    S.tl)    OXE,    TO 

s/<;//s. 

On!    yifld    not,    thou   sad    one,    to 
siglis. 
Vor  munnur  at  Destiny's  will. 
|{<'hnltl,  for  each  j>lcasiir('  that  flies, 

AiiolhtT  n-plaoini,'  it  still. 
Tinif's  wiIll;,^ve^<'  it  all  ufoncfenthcr. 

Far  slower  would  br  in  its  flight: 
The    stonu  gives  a  charm    to   line 
weather. 
And  day  woidd  seem  dark  without 
night. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to 
8ighs. 

When  we  look  on  .some  lake  tiiat 
repeats 

The  loveliness  bounding  its  shore, 
A  breeze  o'er  the  soft  surfaee  fleets. 

And  the  mirror-like  beauty  is  o'er. 


r>ut  the  bne/.c.  ere  it  rutllfd  the  deep 

I'ervailing  the  odorous  bowers, 
.Vwakeu'd    tlie    flowers    from    theii 
slfeji. 
And  wafted  their  sweets  to  be  ours. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to 
sighs. 

Oh,    blame  not    the  ehange  nor  the 

flight 

( )f  our  joys  as  they're  passinic  away, 

'Tis   tilt'  swift iie.ss  and  change  give 

delight —  [stay. 

They    would    pall  if  permitted   to 

Mon-  gaily  tht-y  glilti-r  in  flying, 

Tiit-y  pt'risli  in  lustre  still  liriglil. 
Like  the  hues  of  the  doljthin,  in  dy- 
ing. 
Or  the  biunming-bird's  wing  in  its 
lliglil. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to 
sighs. 


James   Russell   Lowell. 


T/ir   IllKl TAOK. 

The  rieh  man's  son  inherits  lands. 
And  piles  of  brick,  and  stou(>,  and 
gol<l. 
An<l  he  inherits  soft  while  hands, 
And    tender    flesh   thai   fears   the 

••old. 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  id  me. 
One  scarce  would  wi>li  to  hold  In  fee. 

The  ricli  iniin's  sdu  iidierits  cares; 
The  b.ink  may  break,    the  factory 
burn, 
A  breath  may  bupit  his  bubble  shares. 
And  s(»ft  whil4'  hands  couM  hardly 

earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  hislin-n; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  ill  fee. 

The  rlcli  iii.in'.M  .son  inherits  wants. 
His    Htomacli     craves     for    dainty 
(are ; 


Willi    sated     heart,     he     hears     the 
j)ants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  bn.wii  :irm< 

l>are. 
.Vnd  wearies  in  his  e;i.sy-<'hair; 
\  heritaLT''.  it  mciiis  to  me, 
(ine  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth   the  poor  man's  son   in- 
hciii  •.' 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart. 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit; 
Kiiiu  of  two  b.inds,  be  df)es  hi«  ](art 

III  every  n-rful  t(»il  and  art; 
.\  lierilai:c,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wisli  to  iioid  in  fer. 

What   doth   the   poor  man's  son   In- 
lieril  '.' 
Wishes     o'erjoyed     with     bumble 
Ibiii'^s, 
\  nink  adjudged  by  toil-worn  merit, 
f'oiit<Mii    that    from     r-niploymcnl 
springs. 


LOWELL. 


349 


A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  in- 
herit ? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sm-e 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son!  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil. 
But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands, 
This    is    the  best  crop  from  thy 
lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son  I    scorn  not  thy 
state ; 
There    is    worse    weariness    than 
thine. 
In  merely  being  rich  and  great; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine. 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  be- 
nign; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  ('(lual  in  the  earth  at  last; 

Botli,  fliildrcn  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title'  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  records  of  a  well-filled  past; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


[From  the  Vision  of  Sir  LaunfaL] 
THE  OENEROSITY  OF  NATURE. 

Eaktii  gets  its  price  for  what  earth 
gives  us; 
The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  comer  to 
die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes 
and  shrives  us. 
We  bar^^iiin  for  the  graves  wo  lie  in ; 


At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things 

sold. 
Each  omice  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of 

gold ; 
For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we 

pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's 

tasking: 
'Tis  heaven  alone   that    is    given 

away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the 

asking. 
\o  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
.June  may   be   had   by    the    poorest 

comer. 
And  what    is  so    rare   as   a  day  in 

June  ? 
Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be 

in  tune, 
And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear 

lays: 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  lis- 
ten. 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might. 
An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches 

and  towers. 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it    for 

light, 
('limbs  to  a  soi^l  in  grass  and  flow- 
ers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 
Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  val- 
leys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows 

green. 
The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in 
its  chalice. 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blaiU 
too  mean 
To  be  some  happy  creature's  pal- 
ace; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the 
sun, 
Atilt  like  a    blossom    among   the 
leaves, 
And  lets  his  ilhnnined  being  o'errun 
With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  re- 
ceives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her 

wings. 
And   the   heart  in  her  dumb  bri'asi 
flutters  and  sings; 


350 


LOWELL. 


Ill'  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she 

to  her  nest, — 
III  the  uiiu  ear  of  Nature  which  song 

is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  llie  high-tide  of  the  year, 
And  whatever  of  life  halh  ebbed 

away 
Comes  tiooding  baek  with   a  ripply 

<'heer, 
Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and 

bay ; 
Now  the  iieart  is  so  full  that  a  drop 

o\eilills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills 

it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may 

hav<r  been, 
"lis  enough   for  us  now    tliat    the 

leaves  are  green; 
We  sit  in  tlie  wanu  shade  and  feel 

right  well 
How  the  saj)  ereeps  up  and  the  blos- 
soms swell; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot 

helj)  knowing  I'lig; 

That  skies  an-  elearaiul  grass  is  grow- 
'ihe  l)ree/,e  eomes  wliisperiiig  in  our 

ear. 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near. 
Tliat    maize    has    sprouted,    that 

streams  are  (lowing, 
That  the  river  is  l>luertlian  the  sky, 
Tliat  I  lie  robin  is  plastering  his  house 

hard  by; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  goo<l  news 

baek, 
For  other  eouriers  we  shoidd  not  laek  ; 
We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's 

lowing. — 
\ii(l  bark  I  bow  clear  bold  ehaiilicleer. 
Warmed  with  tbt^  new  wine  of  tlie 

year. 
Tells  all  In  his  lusty  crowing! 

Joy  comes,  grief  got-s,  we  know  not 

how; 
Kver>'lliliig  Is  happy  now, 

Kverylbing  is  uj>«aid  striving; 
lis  UH  I'asy  now  fur  Hie  heart   tf>  be 

true 
\«  for  grass  to  be  f^reeu  or  skies  to  be 
blue.— 
'Tls  Ibe  natural  way  o(  llvini:. 


Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  hav« 
lie.  I  ? 
In  the  uusoarred  heaven  they  leave 
no  wake; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they 
have  shed. 
The  iicart   forgets  its  sorrow  and 
ache. 


AFTEK   THE   It  U RIAL. 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor; 
When  skies  are  sweet  as  a  psalm, 
At  the  bows  it  lulls  so  stalwart, 
in  bluff,  broad  shouldered  calm. 

And  when  over  breakers  to  leeward 
The  tattered  surges. are  hurled. 
It  may  keep  our  bead  to  the  tempest. 
With    its  grip   on   the   base  of    the 
world. 

Ihit,  after  the  shipwreck,  tell  me 
What  help  in  its  iron  thews. 
Still  true  to  the  lirokeu  hawser. 
Deep    down    among    •seaweed     micl 
ooze  i* 

In  the  breaking  gulfs  of  sorrow, 
\Vhen  the  heliiless  feet  stretch  out 
Ami  liinl  in  tin-  deeps  of  ilarkness 
No  footing  so  .solid  as  doulit. 

Then  better  one  sjiar  of  memory. 
One  brok<'n  ])lank  of  the  past. 
That  our  liuiiiau  heart  may  cling  to, 
Tlioiigb  liopeless  of  shoii'  at  last ! 

To  the  spirit  its  splendid  eonjectun's, 

To  tlie  tiesh  its  sweet  despair, 

Its  tears  o'er  t!ie  thin-worn  locket 

With  its  anguisb  of  deatlib'ss  hair! 

Immortal  ?     I  feel  it  and  know  It, 
Who  doubts  it  of  such  as  she? 
I'.ul  that  is  the  Jiang's  very  secret; 
Iiiiiuortal  away  from  me! 

There's  a  narrow  ridge.  In  the  grave- 
yard 

Would  scarce  stay  a  eliild  in  liiN 
race, 

Hut  to  me  and  my  thought,  it  is  wider 

Thau  the  star-sow  n  vague  of  spac*'. 


LOWELL. 


351 


Your  logic,  my  friend,  is  perfect, 
Your  morals  most  drearily  true; 
i>ut,  since  the  earth  clashed  on  her 

coffin, 
I  keep  hearing  that,  and  not  you. 

Console  if  you  will,  I  can  bear  it; 
TIs  a  well-meant  alms  of  breath; 
But  not  all  the  preaching  since  Adam 
Has  made  death  other  than  death. 

It  is  pagan;  but  wait  till  you  feel  it; 
Tliat  jar  of  our  earth,  that  dull  shock 
When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  pas- 
sion 
Tears  down  to  om'  primitive  rock. 

Commimion  in  spirit!    Forgive  me! 
But  1,  who  am  earthy  and  weak, 
Would    give    all   my   incomes   from 

dreamland 
For  a  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  cheek. 

That  little  shoe  in  the  corner, 
So  worn  and  wrinkled  and  brown, 
With  its  emptiness  confutes  j'ou, 
And  argues  your  wisdom  down. 


{From  Under  the  WUlotcs.'] 
JUNE. 

Frank-hearted  hostess  of  the  field 

and  wood, 
Gypsy,  whose  roof  is  every  spreading 

tree, 
June  is  the  pearl  of  our  New  England 

year. 
Still    a    surprisal,    thougli    expected 

long. 
Her  coming  startles.     Long  she  lies 

in  wait. 
Makes   many  a   feint,   peeps    forth, 

draws  coyly  Ixu-k, 
Then,  from  some  southern  ambush 

in  tlie  sky, 
Witli    one    great    gusli    of    blossom 

storms  tlie  world. 
A  week  ago  the  sparrow  was  divine; 
The  blue-bird  shifting  his  light  load 

of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless 

fence, 


Was  as  a  rhymer  ere  the  poet  come : 
But  now,  () rapture! sunshine-winged 

and  voiced, 
Pil^e  blown   thi-ough   by  the    warm 

wild  breath  of  the  West, 
Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy 

cloud. 
Gladness  of  woods,  skies,  waters  all 

in  one. 
The  bobolink  has  come,  and,  like  the 

soul 
Of  the  sweet  season  vocal  in  a  bird, 
Gurgles  in  ecstasy  we  know  not  what, 
Save  June  !  Dear  June!  Now  God  be 

l)raisedfor  June. 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last. 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said, — ' 'Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright. 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said,—  " Auf  wleder.se/ien  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the 
stair; 
I  linger  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To   breathe   in    thought    I    scarcely 
dare. 
Thinks  slie, — '^  Auf  loiedersehen ! " 

'T  is   thirteen    years;    once  more  I 
press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 

I  hear  '^Auf  iviederneken  !  " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art! 
The  English  words  had  seemed  too 
fain. 
But   these  —  they  drew   us  heart  to 

heart. 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 
She  said,  —  "Auj'  wiedersehen!  " 


852 


LOWELL. 


STOHM  AT  APPLEDOliK. 

llow  looks  Apiile<lor»'  in  a  storm  ? 
1   have    si't'ii    it    when    its    crags 

seeuieti  frantic. 

Buttinij  a^^ainst  the  mad  Atlantic, 

WTien    surije    on    surge   would    heap 

cnorme, 

CUtTs  of  emeralil  topped  with  snow. 

That  lifted  ami  lifted,  and  then  let 

go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thiuider, 
A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  un- 
der; 
^Viid  the  island,  whose  rock-roots 

pierce  below 
To  where  they  are   warmed  with 
the  central  lire, 
You    could     feel    its    granite    fibres 
rackctl. 
As   it    sceint'd    to   jdunge    with    a 

shudder  and  tlirill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping 
hill. 
And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 
( )f  r;ii;t-fnjtli  from  everv  cranny  and 
Icdue. 
While   the  sea  drew   its  bn'afh  in 
hoarse  and  deep. 
And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its 
edge, 
fiathering  itself  for  a  iiiii.'iitier  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs 
and  breakers 
You    would    never    dream    of    in 
smooth  Weather. 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres. 
IJellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarl 
ing  together; 
I-r)ok  northward,  where  Duek  Island 

lies. 
And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise. 
Against  a  liaekgnnnid  of  slaty  skies. 
A  row  of  pillars  still  and  ubite. 
Thai  glinuner,  and  then  are  out  of 
sight, 
Ah  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss. 
Wbile  von  crossed  the  gusty  desert 
bynluhl. 
Tin*  \itw^  e<>li>nnades  of  I'ersepolis; 
Look    Hiiulbward    for    Whit*'    Island 
light, 


The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er 
tbi- tide; 
There  is  lirst  a  half-mile  of  tumuli 

and  light, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and   tumble   and 
fright. 
And  siUi^ing  bewilderment  wild  and 
wide. 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and 
right, 
Then  a  mile  or  more  of   rushing 
sea. 
And  then  the  lighthouse  slim  and 

lone ; 
And  whenever  the  weight  of  ocean  is 

thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head. 
A  great  niist-jotun  you  will  see 
Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High   and  huge  o'er  the  lighthouse 

top. 
Witli  hamls  of  wavering  spray  out- 
spread, 
(iroping  after  the  little  tower, 
That  seems  to  shrink  and  shorteiv 
and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden 
droj). 
And  silently  and  fnutlessly 
lie  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

Ydii,    meanwhile,    where    drenched 
you  stand. 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and 
roar. 
And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your 

hand. 
As  you  turn  and  see  n  valley  deej). 
That  was  not   tlu'ie  a  moment  be- 
fore. 
Suck  rat  I  ling  down  between  you  and  a 
heap  Ifall 

of  lopiilin-^  billow,  whose  instant 
.Must    sink   the   whole    islanti   onee 
fur  all; 
Or  walch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 
Keeling  their  way  to  you  more  and 
more; 
If  they  once  should  ebilch  you  hi;;h 

lus  the  knees. 
They  would   whirl   you  down   like  a 

sprii;  of  kelji, 
Beyond  all  n-ach  of  liope  or  help;  — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


LYTE  —  LYTLE. 


85.^ 


Henry  Francis   Lyte. 


ABIDE   WITH  ME. 

Abide  with  me!  fast  falls  the  even- 
tide; 

The  darkness  deepens;  Lord,  with 
me  abide ! 

When  other  helpers  fail,  and  com- 
forts flee. 

Help  of  the  helpless,  oh,  abide  with 
me! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little 

day; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim;   its    glories 

pass  away ; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see; 
O  Thou  who  changest  not,  abide  with 

me! 

Not  a  brief  glance,  I  beg,  a  passing 

word ; 
But  as  Thou  dwelledst  with  Thy  dis- 

cii)les.  Lord, 
/amiliar,     condescending,     patient, 

free, 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide  with 

me! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of 

kings; 
I3ut  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in 

Thy  wings; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every 

plea ; 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  thus  abide 

with  me! 


Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youtli  didst 

smile; 
And,  though  rel)cllious  and  perverse 

meanwhile, 
Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left 

Thee. 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with 

me! 

I  need   Thy  presence  every  passing 

hour: 
What    but   Thy   grace    can  foil  the 

tempter's  power"? 
Who  like  Thyself  my  guide  and  stay 

can  be  ? 
Through    cloud    and    sunshine,  oh, 

abide  with  me ! 

I  fear  no  foe,  with  Thee  at  hand  to 
bless : 

Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bit- 
terness : 

Where  is  Death's  sting  ?  Where 
Grave,  thy  victorj'  ? 

I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with 
me! 

Hold,   then.   Thy   cross    before   my 

closing  eyes! 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  iioiiit 

me  to  the  skies! 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  cartli's 

vain  shadows  tlee; 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  w  ith 

me! 


William    Haines   Lytle. 


A  STONY  TO  CLKOPATIIA. 

I  AM  (lying.  Kgypt,  dying. 

Ebbs  till'  criinson  life-tide  fa.st. 
And  the  dark  I'lutonian  shadows 

(Jatlicr  on  the  evening  blast; 
Ijct    thine    arms,    O   Queen,    enfold 
me. 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  tliine  ear; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart -secrets, 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 


Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  le 
gions 
Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  mv  wrecked  and  scattered  i^al- 
K-ys 
Strew  dark  Actiunrs  fatal  shore. 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround 
me, 
Promi)t  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman. 
Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 


354 


MACAULAY. 


Li'f  not  Ciesar's  scrviK-  minions 
Mock  tin-  lion  tlius  laid  low; 
r  was  no  focnian's  ann  that  fi-lled 
liini.  |lilow: 

"r  was    his   own   that    stnu-k   the 
His,  wlio  iiill(tW('il  on  thy  hosoni, 
Tiiinrd  a-idi-  t'loin  u'lory's  ray, 
His  who.  drinik  wilii  thy  caresses, 
Madly  threw  u  world  away. 

Should  the  hase  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Koine, 
Wiiere  my  nolde  spouse,  Oclavia, 

NVeeps  witiiin  iier  widowed  home. 
Seek  her;  say  the  j^ods  bear  witness  — 

AJtiirs,  atiyurs,  circling  wings  — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commin- 
gled, [kings- 

Yet   shall    moimt    the    throne  of 


As  for  thee,  starn-ytnl  Egyptian! 

(Jlorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile! 
l-ii;lil  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  .■<nule. 
(iive  the  Ca-sar  crowns  and  arclies. 

Let  his  brow  liie  latucl  iwine: 
I  can  scorn  tin-  Senate's  triumphs. 

Triumphing  in  love  like  tlnnc 

1  am  dying.  Egyi)t,  dying' 

Hark  !      the     insulting    foeiuan'i 
••ry. 
'I  hey    are   coming  —  ipiick,   my    fal- 
chion I 

Let  mc  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah!  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee! 

( "leopatra  —  fJome  —  farewell ! 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


FItO.M   THE   LAY    OF  '' I/OUJTI  IS.'- 

L\us  PoKSKXA  of  Clusium, 

Hy  the  Nino  (iods  he  swore 
'i'lial  the  great  house  of  Tar<piin 

Slioid.l  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  (Jods  he  swore  it. 

Ami  nameil  a  trysting-day. 
And  i»ade  his  niessi-ngers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north. 

To  ^uuunoh  ids  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  iiirss4'ngers  ride  fiist, 
.vnd  lower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  lirard  the  trum|iet's  blast. 
Sb  line  on  I  In-  false  Kiruscaii 

W  lilt  liici'T-.  ill  bis  hoiiie. 
W  In-n  I'oisi'iia  (if  (hisiiim 

Is  on  the  m.irrli  for  Konn-! 

i'be  horsiMuen  and  the  footmen 

.\re  ]ioiiring  in  amain 
From  iiianv  a  sijilely  market-place, 

From  iiiiiiv  a  fruitful  plain. 
From  III  iiiv  .1  l.iiiejy  hamiit. 

\\  hii  b.  Iii.l  by  buocb  and  pine, 


Like  an    eagle's   nest   hangs  nn   the 
crest 
Of  purple  Apeuuinu: 

There  bi'  tldrty  chosen  prtiphets, 

'I'be  wisest  of  the  land. 
Who  always  by  Lars  I'oi-sena 

lioth  morn  an<l  evening  stund. 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  liuiied  the  \erses  o'er, 
'I'raced  from  the  right  on  linen  wliiie 

r«y  nughly  seers  of  yore; 

.\nil  with  one  v«iie«>  the  Thirty 
Have  their  glad  answer  given: 

"  <;o  forth,  go  forth,  L.irs  Porsena, 
<io  furtll.  beloved  of  Heaveu  ! 

( in,  and  Kiiirn  in  glory 
To  <  'iuHlnni's  i<>yal  dome, 

.\nd  hung  roiinil  Xursiia's  altars 
The  gold.n  sliields  of  Koniel" 

\iid  now  bath  every  city 

Sful  up  her  tale  of  men; 
lln-  fool  an-  fourscore  lliousjind, 

The  liorite  are  IhuiisHndH  tuu. 


MACAULAT. 


356 


Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array ; 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  tiysting-day. 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 
A.nd  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally; 
And  with  a  mighty  following, 

To  join  the  muster,  came 
The  Tusculan  Marailius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Ked  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  eveiy  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands. 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustiuneritun  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain; 
Astur  hath  stormed  .laiiiculiun. 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat. 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  uji  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fatb(>rs  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns. 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council,  standing 

Before  the  River-gate; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may 
guess. 

For  nuising  or  debate. 
Out  si)ake  tlie  Consul  roimdly: 

"  The     bridge    must    straight    go 
down ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying. 
All  wild  with  haste  and  fear; 


"To  arms!  to  arms!  Sir  Consul; 

Ijars  Porsena  is  here. ' ' 
(^n  the  low  hills  to  w(>stward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye. 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud. 
Is    heard     the    trumpets"    war-nott 
proud. 

The  trampling  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears. 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right. 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Chisium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamiliiis, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  th(>  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tf)ps  was  no  woman 

But  sjiat  towards  him  and  hissed, 
No  child  l)ut  scrcaiiicd  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  Consid's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  si^epch  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  be  at  the  wall. 

And  darkly  at  the  toe: 
"  Their  van  will  be  ujjon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  l)ridgft 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ? '' 

Then  out  spake  brave  Iloratius, 

The  Captain  of  the  gate: 
"  To  every  man  U]ion  this  earth 

Death  comet h  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  ilie  l)elter 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 


866 


MA  CAUL  AT. 


For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 
Ami  the  temples  of  his  gods  ? 

*'  And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  tin-  wife  who  nm'ses 

Ills  i)al)y  at  hiT  bivasl, 
Ami  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  llame,  — 
To  save  tlu-m  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deeil  of  shame? 

"  llew  down  the  hridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  witli  t\<o  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three: 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

Anil  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartins, — 

A  llamnian  i>roud  was  he: 
"Lo.  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  sjiake  strong  Ilerminius, — 

<  >f   Titian  idood  was  he: 
'*  I  will  ai)ide  on  lliy  lift  side. 

And  keeji  tlie  brii"lge  with  tbee." 

"  Iloralius,"  i|iiolh  the  Consul. 

"  As  thou  sayest  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  tbal  great  array 

Went  fnrlli  till-  ilaiintleKs  three. 
For  Komaiis  in  Koine's  ipiarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  golil. 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

in  the  brave  days  of  old. 

TIhmi  none  was  for  a  party  — 

Then  all  were  foi-  the  state; 
Then  the  t;ri'at  man  helped  the  poor, 

.\nd  the  poor  man  loved  the  great ; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned! 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold: 
The  Komans  were  like  brothers 

In  Uie  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Komaii  is  to  Roman 

.More  luitefiil  than  a  foe. 
Ainl  thi'  tribunes  beard  the  high. 

And  the  fathers  urind  the  low. 
As  ue  wax  hoi  in  laitioti. 

In  i)attle  we  wax  rold; 


Wherefore    men    fight    not  as   thev 
fought 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  baeks. 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe; 
And  fathers,  nuxed  with  commons. 

Seized  hatehet.  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  alx)ve, 

Ami  loosetl  the  props  below, 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  anny, 

Hight  glorious  to  behoKl, 
(^ame    Hashing    baek    the    noonday 

light. 
Hank  behind  raijk.  like  surges  bright 

( )f  a  biuail  sea  of  gold. 
Four  huniiieil  innnjiets  soumleil 

A  jieal  of  warlike  glee. 
As    that    great   host    with    measured 

tread. 
And  sjH'ars  advanced,   and   ensigns 

sjtread. 
Rolled   slowly   towards   the  bridge's 
head,  ■ 
Where  stood  the  daiiiuless  three. 

The  three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  ujxtn  the  foes, 
.\nil  a  u'leat  shout  of  lauLditer 

Fmni  all  the  vaiiL'uard  rose; 
.Vml  forth  three  chiifs  eaine  spurring 

IJefore  that  ill  ep  array; 
To   earth  they  s|)rang,  their   swords 

they  drew. 
Anil    lifted    high    their   shields,   and 
Hew 

To  win  the  narrow  wav. 


Ilerminius  smote  down  .\runs; 

l.artiuH  laid  Oeinis  low; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Laiisuhis 

llonitius  sful  a  blow: 
"  Lie  there."  he  cried,  "fell  pirate! 

No  more,  aghast  and  jiale. 
From  nstia'x  walN  ihc  crowd   sliall 

mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark: 
No  more  C,iiii]iaMia's  himN  shall  Hy 
To  Woods  iiinl  cavei-ns,  when  they  spy 

Thv  till  iie-acciirsed  sail!" 


MACAULAT. 


357 


But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  tlie  foes : 
A  wild  and  wratliful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance, 

Halted  that  mighty  mass, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  pass. 

But,  hark!  the  cry  is  Astur: 

And  lo!  the  ranks  divide; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfolil  shield. 
And  in  his  hand  heshakiis  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans, 

A  smile  serene  and  high ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she-wolfs  litter 

Stands  savagely  at  bay ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow. 

If  Astur  clears  the  way?  " 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatins, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Hight  deftly  turned  th(>  l)Iow. 
The  blow,  though  tumetl,  came  yet 

too  nigh; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his 

thigh. 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Hemiinius 

He  leaned  one  l)rcathing-space. 
Then,     lik*;    a    wild-cat    mad    with 
wounds. 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth  and  skull  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sjicd,  [out 

The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 
Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 

As  falls  on  Mount  Avernus 
A  thunder-smitten  oak. 


Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 
The  giant  arms  lie  spread; 

And  the  pale  augurs,  nmttering  low, 
Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud: 
"Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury. 

And  thrice  tyrned  back  in  dread ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied; 
And  now  the  l)ridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  l)ack,  come  back,  Horatius!" 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all  — 
"Back,  Lartius!  Ijack.  Ilerminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall! '" 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  — 

Ilerminius  darted  back; 
And,  as  they  passed,   beneath  theii 
feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces. 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone. 

They    would     have    crossed   once 
more; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  atliwart  tlie  stream; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumi>h 

Rose  frcjm  tlie  walls  nf  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turrel-toi)s 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken. 
When  lirst  he  feels  the  rein, 


358 


MACAULAY. 


The  furious  rivor  striiji^,'!*"'!  luml, 
And  tossed  his  tawny  mane. 

And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 
Kt'joicinp  to  be  free; 

And  whirling  down,  in  fn^rce  career, 

liatili'iiit'nl,  and  ]ilank,  and  pier, 
Kushed  headlon;^  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Iloratius, 

IJut  constant  still  in  mind  — 
Tiiriff  tliirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  Itroad  tlood  behind. 
"Down     with     him!"     cried     false 
.SfXtus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face; 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars   Por- 
senu, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to, our  grace!  " 

Koimd  tiunied  he,  as  not  deijniiiit; 

Those  craven  ranks  to  stfc: 
Naught  si)ake  he  to  Lars  Torsena, 

To  Sextus  nauglit  spake  he; 
IJut  he  saw  on  I'alatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
Aiid  he  spake  to  the  nolile  rivc^r 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome : 

"O  Tiber!  Father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms. 

Take  thou  in  chariic  this  day!" 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  slieathed 

Tbc  i^nod  sword  l)y  ids  side. 
And.  Willi  his  haiiu-ss  on  his  back, 

I'lunu'cd  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  (jr  sorrow 

\\ 'a>^  iKard  fri>m  i-ilhcr  bank. 
Rut  friends  and  foes  in.<linub  sur- 
prise. 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Sto<Hl  gazing  wlier*'  he  sank; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  ap)iear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
.\nil  even  the  ranks  of  'I'uscany 

<  i>uM  scarce  forlieur  to  cheer. 

Rut  liercely  ran  the  ••urrent. 

Swollen  liiiih  by  months  of  rain; 
And  fast  bis  IiIoimI  was  flowing; 

And  he  wiuH  sore  in  ]>ain, 


.Vnd  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows; 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 
Rut  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  1  ween,  <lid  swimmer. 

In  such  an  evil  ease. 
Struggle     through     such    a     raging 
Hood 

Sate  to  the  landing-place; 
IIiil  liis  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

Ry  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  lather  Tiber 

Rare  bravely  ui)  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him!"  quoth  fal.se  Scx- 
tus  — 
"  Will  not  the  yillain  drown? 
l)Ut  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

Wi-  should  lia\e  sacketl  the  town  !" 
•Heaven   ii«ip    him!"    nuoih    l^irs 
I'orsena, 
"  .\nd  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
I'or  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  .seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  lian<ls; 
And  now,  with  sliout,s  and  elai)ping, 

And  noise  of  wei-jiing  loud, 
lie  enters  lhroui,'h  I  he  IJiver-t  Jate. 

RoriH'  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  publii-  riyht. 
As  nnich  as  two  strong  o.\en 

(nuld     plough     from     morn     til 
niudil : 
And  tiiey  made  a  moliiMt  image, 

.\nd  set  it  up  on  high  — 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

U  .slnnds  in  the  roinilimn, 

I'l.iin  for  all  folk  to  see,  — 
lloralius  in  bis  harness 

Hailing  U|M>ii  one  kn<>e; 
.\nd  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  \iiM. 
How  valiantly  be  kc|>t  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


MACDOA'ALD. 


359 


George  MacDonald. 


THE  BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby 

dear  ? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  bUic? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  spar- 
kle and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth 

and  high  ? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm 

white  rose  ? 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one 

knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of 

bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  anns  and 

liaiids? 
Love   made    itself    into    bonds    and 

bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  dar- 
ling things  ? 

From  the  same  box  as  the  cherub's 
wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to   be 

you  ? 
(Jod  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you 

dear  ? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  1  am 

here. 


O  LASSIE  AYONT  THE  HILL. 

O  LA8SIE  ayont  the  hill! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill, 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill, 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
I'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicbt. 
For  I'm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel', 
A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  w^eicht, — 
O  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill ! 

Gin  a  body  could  be  a  thocht  o'  grace, 

ilnd  no  a  sel'  ava ! 

I'm  sick  o'   my  heid,  and  my  ban's 

and  my  face, 
An'  my  thoehts  and  mysel'  and  a'  ; 
I'm  sick  o'  the  warl'  and  a'  ; 
The  licht  gangs;  by  wi'  a  hiss; 
For  thro'  my  een  the  sunbeams  fa'. 
But  my  weary  heart  they  miss. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  liili ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roun'  tlie  neuk  o'  the  hill ; 
Bidena  ayont  the  liill! 

For  gin  ance  I  saw  yer  bonnie  heid, 
And  the  suiilicht  o'  yer  hair, 
The  ghaist  o'   mysel'   wad  fa'   doim 
(!eid ; 

1  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
I  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
Filled  o'  the  sole  remeid; 

Slain  by  the  arrows  o'  licht  frae  yer 

hair. 
Killed  by  yer  body  and  heid. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill,  etc. 

But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  ever  sa^sma'. 
For  the  sake  o'  my  bonnie  dame, 
Whan  I   cam'    to   life,   as  she   gaod 
awa', 

1  could  bide  my  body  and  name, 

I  micht  bide   by   mysel,    the   weary 

same ; 
Aye  setting  up  its  held 
Till  I  turn  frae  the  daes  that  covel 

ijiy  frame, 
As  gin  tiiey  war  roun'  the  deid. 
O  lassie  ayont  the  hill,  etc. 


860 


MACE. 


But  gin  ye  lo'etl  me  as  I  lo'e  you, 
I  wad  ring  my  ain  deid  knell ; 
Mysel'  Wild  vanish,  shot  through  and 

through 
Wi'  the  shiiu'  o'  y»?r  sunny  sel", 
By  the  licht  anoath  yer  hroo, 
I  wad  iWii  to  mysel',  and  ring  luy  tx'll. 
And  only  live  in  you. 


O  lassie  ayont  the  hill  I 
Com*'  owcr  till'  lap  o'  tin-  hill, 
Or  roun"  tin-  iwuk  o"  thf  hill. 
For  1  want  _\c  .sairiln'  niclil. 
I'm  Ufedin"  ye  sair  liie  nidil. 
For  I'm  tired  and  sirk  o'  luy.st  l', 
A  hody's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht 
U  lassie,  come  ower  the  liilll 


Frances  Laughton   Mace. 


EASTER  MOUXiyO. 

Open  the  gates  of  the  Timple; 
Spread    branches   of  palm    and  of 
hay ; 
Let  not  the  spirits  of  nature 

Alone  (leek  the  Conqueror's  way. 
While  Spring  from  her  death-sleep 
arises. 
And  jovdus  His  presence  awaits. 
While  morning's  smile  lights  up  the 
lu-avens. 
Open  the  lieaiUifid  (Jates. 

He  is  here!     The   long  waldirs  are 
over. 
The   stone    from   tin'  gravi-   rolh'd 
away ; 
"  We  shall  sleep,"  wju*  the  sigh  of  the 
midnight, 
"  We  shall  rise!"  is  the  song  of  to- 
day. 
()  Mu.sic!  no  longer  lamenting. 

On  ])inionH  of  treimilous  tlaiin-. 
(Jo  soaring  to  mei-t  the  Iteloved, 
Ami   swell    the   new  song   of    His 
fmne ! 

The  altar  is  snowy  with  biossoms. 

The  foul  is  II  vase  of  perfinm'. 
On  pillar  and  ehaneel  are  Iwinim.' 

Fresh  garlands  of  el(>i|neni  bloom. 
f'/irint    in    riHin!  with   glad     lips    we 
niter, 

Ami  far  up  the  Inlinite  height, 
Ari'haiiu'elH  the  pie;in  re-echo. 

And    erown     llim    with    Lilies   of 
Light  I 


oM.y    H.nr/.\(i. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  lit  lie  longer  giown. 
Only  wailing  till  (Ik  glinuner 

Of  the  da>'s  l.is;  beam  is  Mown; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  laded 

From  ilii-'  iitar;  once  full  of  day. 
Till  the  dawn  of   Heaven  is  Imaliiuj; 

Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  lill  the  reaiiers 

Have  the  la^l  sheaf  gathered  home. 
For  I  be  >ummer-lime  balh  faded. 

And  ilieaulumn  winds  are  i-onie. 
<^nielvl\,  reaiM-rsI  gather  <|uiekly. 

The  la>i  ripi-  liour>  of  my  lieart. 
For  till'  l>loo!n  of  lifi-  is  withered. 

And  I  hasten  lo  depart. 

Only  w.iiiing  lill  tin'  angels 

Open  wide  the  mystic  gate, 
.\t  whose  feet  I  long  have  liiigt-rcd. 

Weai-y.  poor,  and  desolate. 
Kveii  now   1  Iieaf  their  fnoisleps 

.\ni|  their  voi<'es  far  awiiy  — 
If  they  call  mc,  I  am  w  nil  inf. 

(  bdy  wailing  lo  obr\ 

Only  wailing  till  the  shadows 

,\re  a  liiile  longer  grown  — 
Only  wailing  till  the  glimmcr 

of  the  ilay's  lasl  beam  is  Mown. 
When  from  out  the  folded  darkiX'.HS 

Holy,  deathless  stars  ^Iiall  ri-M  , 
|{y  wiiose  light,  my  'onl  will  gladly 

W  ing  her  pasMagi'  lo  ilie  skies. 


MAC  KAY. 


361 


THE  HELIOTROPE. 

SoiriEWHEUE  'tis  told  that  in  an  East- 
ern land, 

Clasped  in  the  dull  palm  of  a  mum- 
my's hand, 

A  few  light  seeds  were  found ;  with 
wondering  eyes 

And  words  of  awe  was  lifted  up  the 
prize. 

And  much  they  marvelled  what  could 
be  so  dear 

Of  herb  or  flower  as  to  be  treasured 
here; 

What  sacred  vow  had  made  the  dy- 
ing keep 

So  close  this  token  for  his  last,  long 
sleep. 

None  ever  knew,  but  in  the  fresh, 
warm  earth 

The  cherished  seeds  sprang  to  a  sec- 
ond birth, 


And,  eloqiient  once  more  with  love 
and  hope, 

Burst  into  l)loom  the  purple  helio- 
trope. 


Embalmed    perhaps    with    sorrow's 

fiery  tears, 
Out  of  the  silence  of    a   thousand 

years 
It  answered  back  the  passion  of  the 

past 
With  the  pm-e  breath  of  perfect  peace 

at  last. 


O  pulseless  heart !  as  ages  pass,  sleep 

well ! 
The  purple  flower  thy  secret  will  not 

tell. 
But  only  to  oiu'  eager  quest  reply  — 
"Love,  memory,  hope,  like  me  can 

never  die  1" 


Charles  Mackay. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MOURNERS. 

A  LITTLE  child,  beneath  a  tree, 
Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 
A  little  song,  a  pleasant  song. 
Which   was,  —  she  sang  it  all   day 

long,  — 
"  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms 

fall, 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all ! "' 

There  passed  a  lady  by  the  way. 
Moaning  in  the  faro  of  day: 
There  were  tears  upon  her  cheek, 
Grief  in  her  heart  tot)  great  to  speak; 
Her  husband  died  but  yester-morn. 
And  left  her  in  the  world  forlorn. 

She  stopped  and  listened  to  the  child. 
That  look'd  to  Heaven,  and,  singing, 

smiled ; 
And  saw  not,  for  her  own  despair. 
Another  lady,  young  and  fair, 
Who.  also  passing.  stopp<'d  to  hear 
The  infaut's  anthem  riugim:  clear. 


For  she,  but  few  sad  days  before, 
Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore; 
And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul. 
As  that  sweet  memoiy  o'er  her  stole, 
And  showed  how  bright  had  been  the 

past, 
The  present  drear  and  overcast. 

And  as  they  stood  beneath  the  tree, 
Listening,  soothed,  and  jjlaeidly, 
A  youth  came  by,  whose  sunken  eyes, 
Simke  of  a  load  of  miseries ; 
And  he,  arrested  like  the  twain, 
Sto})pe(l  to  listen  to  the  strain. 

Death  had  bowed  the  youthful  head 
( )f  his  bride  beloved,  his  bride  unwed : 
Her  marriage  robes  wen;  iittt'd  on. 
Her   fair   young   face   with    blushes 

shone. 
When  the  Destroyer  smote  her  low, 
And  left  the  lover  to  his  woe. 

And  these  three  listened  to  the  song 
bilver-loiied,  and  sweet,  and  strong. 


liG2 


MACK  AY 


Wbifh  that  chilil,  the  livelong  day, 
("hanti'd  to  ilst'lf  in  play: 
■  Wlii-n  ihf  wiuil  Iduws,  the  blussouis 

fall. 
But  a  gouil  <iuil  n-igns  over  all."' 

Tli«  widow's  lijjs  impulsive  moved; 
The    mother's   grirt,    though    unre- 
i  pi  jved, 

Softened,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
i\ei)eated  what  the  infant  simg; 
And  the  sad  lover,  with  a  start, 
(  uuufd  it  over  to  his  heart. 

And    thuui^li   the  child  —  if    cliiid   il 

were, 
And  not  a  sera])!!  sittinj^  then — 
Was  seen   no   more,   the   sorrowing 

three 
Went  on  tlicir  way  resignedly. 
The  song  still  ringing  in  their  ears  — 
Was  it  music  of  the  spheres? 

Who  shall  li'll  '.'    They  did  not  know. 
Ihil  in  the  midst  of  dccpcsl  woe 
Thestniin  n-iiincd  when  sorrow  grew.. 
To  warn  them,  and  console  llicin  loo: 
"  \Vhcn  ihc  wiml  l)|ows,  the  blossoms 

fall. 
Hut  H  gooil  (Jod  ri'ignn  over  all." 


Cleon  is  a  slave  to  grandeur, 

Free  as  thought  am  1; 
Cleon  fees  a  score  of  doctors, 

Neeil  of  none  have  1; 
W  ealth-surrounded,  carti-enviixtned, 

(Icon  fears  to  die; 
Death    may    conic  —  he'll    lind    mt 
ready. 

Happier  man  am  1. 

(Icon  .sees  no  charms  in  Nature, 

In  a  daisy,  1; 
(Icon  hears  no  anthems  ringing 

'Twfxt  the  sea  and  sky; 
Natiuf  sings  to  me  forever, 

Karnest  listener.  I ; 
Slate  for  stale,  with  all  att«'ndants  — 

Who  woulil  ehanKe  •.'  —  Not  I. 


Cl.lUtS'  AMI  I. 

T'l.Kox  hath  fen  thousand  acres, 

Ne'er  ft  one  have  I ; 
t'leon  dwellelh  in  a  ]>alace, 

I»i  a  eottatie,  I : 
Cleon  hath  a  do/en  fortunes. 

Not  a  jienny.  I : 
Vi'l  the  jioori'r  of  ihe  t\Miin  is 

Cleon,  an<l  noi  1. 

Clcou,  true,  poHseHscth  acres, 

Kut  th*'  landscape,  I ; 
Half  the  charms  to  me  il  yiddelli 

.Money  cannot  buy ; 
Cleon  harbors  sloth  and  dulness, 

Kn-shenlin;  \  l^or.  I ; 
lie  in  vclvil.  1  ill  lii>ilian  — 

lUchur  man  urn  I. 


<jj:ai:  riih:  way; 

MicN  of  tbouubi  I  lie  up  and  stirring. 

Night  and  day: 
Sow   the   .seed  —  withdraw    ibe   cur- 
tain — 

Clear  the  way  I 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them. 

As  ye  may! 
There's  a  fount  about  to  stream, 
Then-'s  a  light  about  to  beam. 
There's  a  wainilh  about  to  glow, 
Tln-n-'s  a  llower  about  to  blow; 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  change 
iiii; 

Inio  gray: 
Men  of  tlioMu'lit  ami  men  of  action, 

(  Icar  Ihe  way  I 

Once  the  web'ome  light  has  broken, 

\\  bo  .shall  say 
Wbal  Ihe  UMiniai,'ined  glories 

(M   Ibe  (lay? 
What  Ihe  evil  ibal  shall  perish 

In  ils  ray  ? 
,\id  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen; 
.VitI  it,  hopes  of  hiuiest  men; 
.\id  il,  itajier  — airl  il,  lypi;  — 
Aid  it.  for  Ihe  liour  is  rli>e, 
.\nd  our  earncsl  niusi  not  slacken 

Inio  play. 
Nbii  of  ilioughi  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way! 


MA  CRAY. 


365 


lio!  a  cloud 's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day ; 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  cnunble 

Into  clay. 
Lo!  the  Eight 's  about  to  conquer, 

Clear  the  way ! 
With  the  Right,  shall  many  more 
Enter,  smiling,  at  the  door; 
With  the  giant  Wrong,  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  auv.  small, 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  prey. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action. 

Clear  the  way ! 


THE  GOOD   TIME   COMING. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 
IJiit  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 

Of  the  uood  time  coming. 
Cannon-bulls  may  aiil  the  truth, 

l]ul  thought's  a  weapon  stronger; 
We'll  win  our  battle  by  its  aid;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword. 
And  Kisht,  not  Might,  shall  be  the 
loni 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Worth,  not   Birth,   shall   rule   man- 
kind, 

And  be  acknowledged  stronger; 
The  proper  impulse  has  been  given;  — 

Wait  a  little  longei-. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
War,  in  all  men's  eyes,  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 

In  the  i^ood  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then. 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  j^ood  time  coming,  boys, 

A  gooil  lime  coming: 
Hateful  rlv;dri(!s  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 


In  the  good  time  coming.  . 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride. 

And  nourish  all  the  stronger; 
And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys. 

A  good  time  coming: 
And  a  poor  man's  family 
Shall  not  be  his  misery 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Every  child  shall  l)e  a  help, 

To  make  his  right  arm  stronger: 
The  happier  he,  the  more  he  has;- 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
Little  children  shall  not  toil. 
Under  or  above  the  soil. 

In  the  good  time  coming; 
But  shall  play  in  liealMiful  fields 

Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronge 
And  every  one  shall  read  and  write ;  - 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys^ 

A  good  time  coming: 
The  people  shall  be  temperate. 
And  shall  love  instead  of  hate, 

In  the  good  time  conung. 
They  shall  use,  and  riot  abuse, 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger 
The  reformation  lias  begun ; 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys 

A  good  time  coming: 
Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can, 
Every  woman,  every  man. 

The  good  time  coming. 
.Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given. 

Make  the  impulse  stronger; 
'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day;- 

Wait  a  little  longer. 


THE  i.Kiirr  ix  the  h'indoi^ 

LatI':  or  early,  home  returning. 
In  the  stiirlight  or  the  rain, 
I  hi'licM  that  lonely  eiindle 
Sliinini?  from  his  win, low-pane. 


364 


MACK  AY. 


Ever  o'er  his  tattered  curtain, 

Nightly  looking,  1  could  scan, 

Aye  inditing. 

Writing —  writing. 

The  jjalt'  tigure  of  a  man; 

btill  discern  behind  him  fall 

The  same  shadow  on  the  walL 

P'ar  bt-yond  the  murky  midnight, 
liy  ilim  burning  of  my  oil, 
Filling  aye  his  rajiid  lealleUs, 
I  have  watched  him  ;it  his  toil; 
Watchetl  his  broad  ami  seamy  fore- 
head. 
Watched  his  white  industrious  hand, 
Kver  7)assing 
And  repassing; 

Wat<'ht'd  iiml  strove  to  luiderstand 
What  imi)clled  it  — gold,  or  fame  — 
lin-ad.  or  bubble  of  a  name. 

Oft  I've  asked,  tlehating  vaiidy 

In  the  silence  of  my  mind. 

What  the  services  he  rendered 

To  his  country  or  his  kimi; 

Whether  tones  of  ancient  nuisic, 

Or  the  sound  of  modern  gong, 

Wisilom  holy. 

Humors  lowly, 

.Sermon,  essay,  novel,  song. 

Or  |)hiloso|ihy  sublime, 

Fiird  the  measure  of  his  time. 

No   one   sought   him,  no  one   knew 

him, 
Unilistingiiished  was  his  name: 
Never  had  his  iiraise  ix'eii  iiileied 
IJy  the  oracles  of  faun-. 
Scanty  fare  .md  decent  raiment, 
IIuml)le  lodging,  and  a  (in — 
These  be  sought  for. 
These  he  wroni;lit   for. 
And  he  gained  bi^  meiU  j/esjre; 
Teaching  men  by  written  word  — 
Clinging;  to  a  ho|H-  di-ferred. 

So  he  live<l.     At  liist  I  missed  him; 
Still  ndght  eveiilM'.'  iwili-ht  fall, 
Ibii  no  taiM-r  lit  bis  lattice  — 
Lay  no  shadow  on  his  \r:\ll. 
In  the  w Inter  of  his  seasons, 
In  the  mi'lidk'hl  of  his  day, 
'.Mid  bis  w riling, 
And  hidillug, 


Death  hath  beckoned  him  away, 
Ere  the  scutem-e  lu-  had  planned 
Found  complciion  at  his  hand. 

But  this  man  so  old  and  nameless 
Left  behind  him  projects  large. 
Schemes  of  progress  undt'\eloi)ed, 
Worthy  of  a  nation's  charge; 
Noble  fancies  uncompleted, 
(M-rmsof  beauty  immatiu"ed, 
Oidy  lu-ediug 
Kimlly  feeding 

To  have  lloiirishctl  and  endured; 
Meet  reward  in  golden  store 
To  havi-  livi'd  for  evermore. 

Who  sb.ill  tell  what  schemes  ma  je.Hic 

l'«-rish  in  the  ai'tive  brain  ? 

What  humanity  is  n»bbed  of, 

Ne'er  lo  be  ii-storcil  au'ain  '.' 

\\bat  we  U»r,  bicause  we  honor 

Overmuch  the  mighty  dead, 

And  dispirit 

hiving  mciit. 

Heaping  scorn  upon  its  head? 

Or  i)erchance,  when  kiutler  grown, 

Leavinu'  it  to  die  —  alone? 


(I  \  t:  lE.tns: 

0  vi;  tears!  Oyefears!  thathavelong 

refiiseil  to  (low. 
Ye  are  welcome  to  my  heart  —  tliaw- 
inu'.  thaw  ing.  like  the  snow; 

1  feel  the  hard  clod  soften,  and  the 

early  snowdrops  sjiring. 
.\nd  the  healing  fountains  gush,  and 
till   wildernesses  sing. 

O  ye  tears  I  O  ye  tears!  I  am  thank- 
fid  that  ve  rim: 

Tliou;;b  ye  trickle  In  the  <larkness,  ye 
shall  glitter  in  ihc  sun. 

The  niiidmw  eaiiimt  shine  if  tin'  niin 
refuse  to  fall. 

And  (he  eyes  that  cannot  werp  are 
till-  saddest  eyes  of  all. 

C)  ye  U'ars!  ()  ye  l«'ar»!  till  I  fell  you 

on  my  chcelc. 
IwasflelOsb  ill  m>  sorrow.  1  wauttlub 

bum,  I  waa  weak. 


MA  CRAY. 


36a 


Ye  have  given  me  strength  to  conquer, 
and  I  stand  erect  and  free, 

And  know  that  I  am  human  by  the 
light  of  sympathy. 

O  ye  tears :  O  ye  tears !  ye  reUeve  me 

of  my  pain ; 
The  barren  rock  of  pride  has  been 

stricken  once  again: 
Like  the  rock  that  Moses  smote,  amid 

Iloreb's  burning  sand. 
It  yields  the  flowing  water  to  make 

gladness  in  the  land. 

There  is  light  upon  my  path,  there  is 
simshine  in  my  heart, 

And  the  leaf  and  fruit  of  life  shall 
not  utterly  depart; 

Ye  restore  to  me  the  freshness  and 
the  bloom  of  long  ago  — 

O  ye  tears !  happy  tears !  I  am  thank- 
ful that  ye  flow ! 


A   QUESTION  ANSWERED. 

What  to  do  to  make  thy  fame 
Live  beyond  thee  in  the  tomb  ? 

And  thine  honorable  name 
JShine,   a    star,    through   history's 
gloom  ■? 

Seize  the  Spirit  of  thy  Time, 
Take  the  measure  of  his  height. 

Look  into  his  eyes  sublime. 
And  imbue  thee  with  their  light. 

Know  his  words  ere  they  are  spoken. 
And  with  utterance  loud  and  clear, 

Firm,  persuasive,  and  imbroken. 
Breathe  them  in  the  people's  ear. 

Think  whate'er  the  Spirit  thinks, 
Feel  thyself  whate'er  he  feels. 

Drink  at  fountains  where  he  drinks. 
And  reveal  what  he  reveals. 

And  whate'er  thy  medium  be, 
Canvas,  stone,  or  i)rinted  sheet. 

Fiction,  or  philosophy. 

Or  a  ballad  for  the  street;  — 

Or,  perchance,  with  i>assion  fraught. 
Spoken     words,     like     lightnings 
thrown. 

Tell  till-  vx'oi.l.'  all  tliy  thought, 
And  the  world  sluiil  be  thine  own! 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A   REVERIE   IS 
THE   GRASS." 

Oh,  beautiful  green  grass !    Earth- 
covering  fair! 
What  shall  be  sung  of  thee,  nor  bright, 

noi'  rare, 
Nor  highly  tliought  of  ?    Long  green 

grass  that  waves 
By  the   wayside,    over   the    ancient 

graves. 
Or  shoulders  of  the  mountain  loom- 
ing high,  [esty, 
Or  skulls  of  rocks,  bald  in  their  maj- 
Except  for  thee,  that  in  the  crevices 
Liv'st  on  the  nurture  of  the  sun  and 

breeze ; 
Adornei-  of  the  nude  rude  breast  of 

hills, 
Mantle  of  meadows,  fringe  of  gush- 
ing rills, 
Ilumblest   of  all   the  hiunble,  thou 

shalt  be. 
If  to  none  else,  exalted  imto  me. 
And  for  a  time,  a  type  of   joy  on 

earth  — 
Joy  unobti-usive,  of  perennial  birth, 
Conunon  as  light  and  air.  and  warmth 

and  rain. 
And  all  the  daily  blessings  that  in  vain 
Woo  us  to  gratitude :  the  earliest  born 
Of  all  the  juicy  verdures  that  adorn 
Tlie  fruitful  bosom  of  the  kiiuUy  soil; 
rieasaiit  to  eyes  that  ache  and  linilis 
that  toil. 

lio!  as  1  muse,  I  see  the  bristling 

spears 
Of   thy   seed-bearing    stalks,   which 

some,  thy  peers,  [fro 

Lift  o'er  their  fellows,  nodding  to  and 
Their   lofty   foreheads   as   the   wild 

winds  blow. 
And  think  thy  swarming  multitudes 

a  host, 
Drawn  up  embattled  on  their  native 

coast. 
And  officered  for  war :— the  si>eanncn 

free 
liaising  their  weapons,  and  the  mai- 

lial  bee 
Blowim;  bis  clarion,  while  some  po))- 

py  tall 
Displays  the  blood-red   banner  ovi 

iill. 


866 


MACK  AY. 


Pleased  with  the  tliought,  1  imi-se 

it  for  a  while. 
And  then  dismiss  it  with  a  faint  half- 

smiie. 
And  next  1  fancy  tliee  a  niuJtilude, 
Moved  !)>  i>iie  ijicath,  obedient  to  the 

mood 
Of  one  stroni;  thinker  —  the  resistless 

wind. 
That,  passing  o'er  thee,  bends  thee  to 

its  niin.l. 
See  how  tiiy  blades,  in  myriads  as 

they  grow, 
Tiu^  ever  lasiward  as  the  west  winds 

blow  — 
Just  as  the  human  crowd  Is  swayed 

and  bent, 
Tly  some  great   iinaclicr,  madly  elo- 

•  liicnt, 
W'lio  moves  Iht-m  at  his  will,  and  w  itli 

a  breath 
Gives  them  their  bias  both  in  life  and 

death. 
Or  by  some  wttndroiis  actor,  when  lie 

draws 
All  eyes  and  hearts,  amid  a  husbetl 

applause. 
Not    to    be    nitered,    lest   delight    be 

marred ; 
Or,  greater  still,  by  hvmn  of  prophet- 

banl. 
Who  moulds  th<.'  la/.y  present  by  his 

rhyme. 
And  sings  the  glories  of  a  future  time. 


And   ye  are  happy,   i;reen   leaves, 

every  one, 
Spread  in  your  pountless   thous.inds 

to  the  sun  I 
rnliki-  m.-tnkind,  no  solit.-iry  blade 
Of  all  your  verdure  ever  <lis<>l>eyed 
'J'he  law  of  nature:  everv  stalk  lli.it 

lifts 
Its  head  above  the  mould,  enjoys  the 

gift,s 
Of  liberal  heaven — the  rain,  the  dew. 

the  light; 
And  poinl.s,  though  humbly,  to  the 

Inlinite; 
And   every   leaf,  a   jKipulous  worlil, 

maintains 
luvisiiile  mititJUHon  its  wiile-stret<'hed 

jdalns. 


So  great  is  littleness!  the  mind  at 

fault 
Betwixt  the  peopled  leaf  and  starry 

vault. 
Doubts  which  is  grandest,  and,  with 

holy  awe. 
Adores  tlie  (Jod  who  made  them,  and 

whose  law 
Upholds  them  in  Eternity  or  Time. 
Greatest  anil  least,  ineffably  sublime. 


77;/./.    MH,    YH   W  I  SHE  I)    i\'l.\l>S, 

Tki.i.  me.  ye  winged  winds. 

That  i<jund  my  pathway  roar, 
l>o  ye  nut  know  some  spot 

W'iiere  moi'tals  wi'ep  no  more? 
Some  lone  ami  pleasant  dell. 

Some  \alley  in  the  west. 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain. 

The  wi'arysoul  may  rest? 
The  loud  w  ind  dw  indled  to  a  whispe 

low, 
\\\\  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answereil, 
"  .No." 

Tell  me.  thou  mighty  <leei>, 

Wliose  billows  round  me  play, 
Know'st  thou  some  favored  spot, 

Some  inland  far  away. 
Wiiere  Weary  man  may  (ind 

The  bliss  for  which  he  sighs.  — 
Where  sorrow  never  lives, 

.Vnd  friendship  never  dies? 
The  loutl  waves,  rolling  in  peri)etUHl 

How. 
.Stopped   for  a   while,  and  sighed   to 
answt-r,  —  "  No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon. 

That,  with  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  u|)on  the  earth. 

.\sleep  in  night's  iMnbrace; 
Tell  me.  in  all  tliy  round 

Mast  tliou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  m:in 

May  lind  a  liappi)-r  lot? 
Itehind  a  cloud  the  moon  w  ithdre^« 

in  woe, 
.\nil  a  voice,  sweet  l)Ul  sad,  respond- 
ed.—"  No." 


MARVELL  —MAS  SET. 


867 


Tell  me,  my  secret  soul, 
Oh!  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 

Is  there  no  resting-place 
From  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? 

Is  there  no  happy  spot 
Where  mortals  may  be  blest, 


Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 

And  weariness  a  rest  ? 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons 

to  mortals  given. 
Waved  their  bright  wings,  and  whis- 
pered, —  "  Yes,  in  heaven." 


Andrew  Marvell. 


A  DROP   OF  DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew. 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new 
For  the  clear  region  where  'twas  born) 
Roimd  in  itself  incloses. 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 
How  it  the  purple  fiowerdoes  slight, 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lies; 
But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light. 
Like  its  own  tear. 
Because    so  long  divided  from  the 
sphere. 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure, 
Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure; 
Till  the  warm  sun  ]iities  its  pain. 
And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  l)ack  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray. 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  ilay, 
conld  it  within  the  human  flower  be 
seeu. 


Remembering     still     its     formei 

height, 
Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blos- 
soms green. 
And,  recollecting  its  ovm.  light, 
Does,  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts, 

express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  woimd, 
Eveiy  way  it  turns  away; 
So  the  world  excluding  round. 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 
Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above; 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go! 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend ! 
Moving  but  on  a  point  below, 
It  all  about  does  upward  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  dis- 
til, 
AVhite  and  entire,  although  congealed 

and  chill  — 
Congealed  on  earth,  but   does,  dis- 
solving, run 
Into  the  glories  of  th'  almighty  sun. 


Gerald  Massey. 


./ERUSALEM    THE     GOLDEN. 


Jkrusaxem  the  Golden ! 

I  weary  for  one  gleam 
Of  all  thy  glory  folden 

In  (list:inc(^  and  in  dream! 
My  tlioiiglils,  like  jialnis  in  exile, 

('iiiiili  up  to  look  and  i)ray 
For  a  glimpse  of  thy  dear  countrj' 

That  lies  so  far  away. 


Jenisalem  the  Golden! 

Methinks  each  flower  that  blows, 
And  eveiy  bird  a-singing 

Of  thee,  some  secret  knows; 
I  know  not  wliat  the  flowers 

Can  feel,  or  singers  see; 
Hill  all  tliese  siiinmer  raptures 

Seem  prophecies  of  thee. 


868 


MASSET. 


J<nisalem  the  GoMt-n! 

When  suiiscl'.s  ill  the  west, 
It  seems  the  gati'  of  .u'i^O't 

Tlioii  rity  of  the  blest! 
And  iiii(liii;iht's  starry  torrhes 

Throiiiili  interiiK'diatc  '^looni 
Are  waving  witli  our  welcome 

To  thy  eternal  home! 

Ji'riisalem  the  Golden! 

When  loftily  they  sing. 
O'er  pain  and  sorrow  olden 

Forever  iriumpliinL;; 
Lowly  may  iif  the  ])ortal, 

And  dariv  may  i)e  tlie  door, 
The  mansirjn  is  immortal  — 

God's  palace  for  his  poor! 

Jenisalem  the  Golden! 

Then-  all  our  hirds  that  flew  — 
Our  flowers  hut  half  unfolden, 

Our  pearls  that  lurncd  to  dew, 
And  all  the  gla'l  lift-music 

Now  heard  no  lonf;er  here, 
Shall  eonii'  a^^aln  to  greet  us 

As  wc  an-  drr»wing  near. 

Jerusalem  flip  Golilen! 

I  toil  on  day  hy  day; 
Ileart-sore  each  night  with  longing, 

1  streteh  my  hands  and  pray. 
That  mid  thy  leaves  of  healing 

My  sold  may  find  her  nest ; 
Where  the  wieked  eea.se  from  troiih 
ling. 

The  weary  are  at  rest! 


77//;   hlMlLIKST    KISCS. 

Ilol  \f  who  in  the  nohle  work 
Win  vconi.  as  tlaiiies  draw  air. 

And  in  the  way  where  limm  lurk 
(iod's  image  hravely  i>r«r; 

Ho!   t rouble-' ried  and  tortiin'  torn. 

The  kingliesi  kings  are  crowned  with 
thorn. 

Life's  gIoi7.  like  the  liow  ill  heaveii. 
Still  Mpriiigelli  from  lie'  rl">iid: 

And   Hoiil    lu-'er    soai.-d    I  lie    starry 
m'Vi'ii, 
But  jiain's  tire-<hariHt  pMle. 


They've  battled  liest  who've  boldes 

borne; 
'I'he  kiimliest  kings  are  crowned  wllli 

thorn. 

'I'lie  martyr's  fire-crown  on  the  brow 

Doth  int(j  gl(>r\  jpuiii ; 
-Vnd    tears    that    from   Love's   torn 
heart  flow. 
To  ])eails  of  spirit  turn. 
Our  dearest  hopes  in  pangs  are  born; 
The  kingliest  kings  aii'  crowned  with 
thorn. 

As     lieauty      in    death's     eerenient 
shrouds. 
And  stars  bcjewcl  night, 
(Jod's    splendors  live   in   dim  heart- 
I'louils, 
And  siittering  worketh  might. 
The  mirkesi  hour  is  mother  o'  morn: 
The  kingliest  kings  are  crowned  with 
thorn. 


ASD  riior  J  It  ST  s]oLJ-:\  a 
Ji:n  EL. 

Ami  thon  hast  stolen  a  jewel.  Death. 

Shall  liulil   iliy  dark  uji  like  a  star. 

.\  beacon  kindling  from  nfar 
Our  light  of  love,  and  fainting  faith. 

Through  tears  it  gleams  iieipetiially. 

And  u'iillers  through   the  thickest 
glooms. 

Till  the  eiiinal  morning  comes 
To  light  us  o'er  the  jasper  sea. 

With  our  best  bianch  in  tendeiesl  leaf. 

\Ve've   strewn  the    way  our    I  oid 
doth  coiiii' : 

.\nd.  ready  for  the  harvest  home. 
Mis  reapers  bind  our  ripe.st  sheaf. 

Our  beaiilifiil  bir<l  of  light  hath  fled; 
A  while  she  sal  with  folded  wings  — 
Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings  — 

'I'hen  St  might  way  into  glory  simmI. 

.\nd  wliite-w  inged  angels  niiilurehei 
With  lieaveii's  w  bite  radiance  robe  ' 

and  crowned. 
And  all  love's  jiiirple  gl<»iy  round 

She  siiiniiiers  on  the  hills  of  iiiyrrli. 


MCCARTHY. 


369 


Through  childhood's  morning-land, 
serene 
yhe  walked  betwixt  us  twain,  like 

love ; 
While,  in  a  robe  of  light  above. 
Her  better  angel  walked  unseen,  — 

Till  life's  highway  broke  bleak  and 

wild ; 

Then,  lest  her  starry  garments  trail 

In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage 

fail. 

The  angel's  arms  caught  up  the  child. 

Hef   wave    of    life    hath    backward 
rolled 
To    the    great    ocean;    on    whose 

shore 
We  wander  wp  and  down,  to  store 
Some    treasures    of     the    times   of 
old:  — 


And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 
For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare, 
Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 

At  heart  for  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

O  weep  no  more !  there  yet  is  balm 
In  Gilead !     Love  doth  ever  shed 
Rich  healing  where  it  nestles  — 
spread 

O'er  desert  pillows  some  green  palm! 

Strange  glory  streams  through  life's 

wild  rents;  [death 

And    through    the    open    door  of 

We  see  the  heaven  that  beckoneth 

To  the  beloved  going  hence. 

God's  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed ; 

The  best  fruit  loads  the  broken 
bough;  plough, 

And  in  the  wounds  our  sufferings 
Immortal  love  sows  sovereign  seed. 


Denis  Florence  McCarthy. 


S  UMMEli  L  ONG INGS. 

An!  my  heart  is  weary  waiting; 
Waiting  for  the  May. — 
vYaiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles. 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  bram- 
bles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  tin;  dewy  way. 
Ah !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting. — 
Waiting  for  the  Afciy. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May, — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study, 
'i'o  tlie  young  face  fair  and  ruddy. 
And  the  thousand  charms  l)eiong- 
ing 
To  the  summer's  day. 
Ah!  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing. 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May, — 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning. 
When  thf  summer  beams  are  burn- 
ing. 


Hopes  and  flowers   that,  dead   or 
dying. 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah!  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  pained  witii  throb- 
bing, 
Throbl>ing  for  the  May, — 
Throbt)ing  for  the  seaside  l)illows. 
Or  tlu'  watcr-\\(joing  willows: 

Whcie.  in  langliing  and  in  sobbing, 

(ilide  the  streams  away. 
Ah!  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throb- 
bing, 
Throi)bing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary. 
Waiting  for  the  May: 
S])ringgoes  by  \\\\\\  wasted  warnimis; 
^ioonlit    evenings,    sunbright    morn- 
ings,— 
Sunnnereomes,  vet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  el)l)^'.i\vay: 
Man  is  ever  weaiT.  we.iry. 
^\'aiting  for  the  Mav  I 


370 


MirnELL. 


Nicholas  Michell. 


PEliSIA. 

Persia!    time-honored    huull     who 

looks  on  thee 
A  desert,  yet  a  Piiradise,  will  see, 
Vast    chains   of    hills   where  not   a 

shrub  appeai-s, 
Wastes  where  the  dews   distil   their 

diamond  tears; 
The  only  living  things  fold  birds  ol 

prey, 
That  whet   their  beaks,  or  court  tlic 

solar  ray. 
And  wolves  that  fill    with  howlin;,'s 

midnight's  vale, 
Turning  the  cheek  of  far-ofif  traveller 

pale;  — 
Anon,    the    ravished    eye  delighted 

dwells 
On     chinar-groves      and      brightly- 
watered  dells. 
Hlooming  where  man  and  art   have 

nothing  done, 
Pomegranates  hang  their  rich  fruit 

in  tiie  sun; 
Grapes  turn  to  purple  many  a  rock's 

tall  brow. 
And  globes  of  gold  adorn  the  citron's 

bough ; 
Mid    rose-trees    hid,    or   i)erched    on 

some  high  palm. 
The  bidl)ul  sings  through  eve's  deli- 

eioiis  ealm; 
While  girl   liy  planes,  or  washed  by 

cooling  streams. 
( )n  some   green    llat  the  stiiU'.ly  city 

gleamn,  — 
'Tis  as  a  demon  there  had  east   bis 

frown. 
And  here  an  anu'el  lireatheij  .i  l(le>s- 

iiig  down ; 
.\.H  if  in  nature  .is  the  binnaii  soul. 
The  god  of  (iarknessspurned  heaven's 

lirigbt  eontrol, 
(J<hm1   struggling    bard    with    Kvils 

withering  spell, 
A  ••miliiii;  Kdeii  t>\\  the  marge  of  hell, 
immortal  elinie!    wliere  Zoroaster 

H|»ruiiii, 
And  light  on  Persia's  earlier  history 

(hmg; 


Let  charity  condemn  not  Iran's  sage. 
Who  taught,  reformed,  and  hinnan- 

ize(i  his  age. 
In  him  one  great  as  Mecca's  prophet, 

see, 
I  Jut  oh.  more  gentle,  wise,  and  pure 

than  he. 


ALEXASDEH  AT  PE/tSEPOLIS. 

IIkke,  too.  came  one  w  ho  bartered 

all  for  power. 
The     dreati     Napoleon     of     earth's 

younger  hour: 
Ay,  the  same  spot  we  calmly   luusr 

on  now 
Saw  chiefs  and  kings  to  Alexander 

bow  ; 
A  ((UKiueror, — yes,  men  praise  and 

bend  the  knee; 
\\']\o  sjireads  most  \voe.  the  greatest 

hero  lie. 
iJut  lo!  that  night  on  fancy  casts  its 

gloom.  (doom. 

That   fearfid   night    of    revelry   and 
When    perished    all     things    costly, 

bright,  and  fair. 
And  let'l.  as  now,  these  pillaiN  stern 

ami  bare, 
'i'hc  feast  is  spread;  around  tlie  nion- 

areli  shine 
Those  earth-born  i)omps  weak  mor- 
tals deem  divine; 
High  sits  be  on  bis  throne  of  gems 

and  ;;nld. 
nright-starred  and  piirjile  robes   his 

limbs  enfold : 
No  crown  adorns  his  brow,  for  fes- 
tive boiu"s 
Have   wreathed  his  lii'ail    with  Mae- 

cbiis'  bloomy  (lowi-rs: 
Lamps,  iiung  in  silver  <"bains.  a  soft- 
ened glow 
Shell  on  the  warrior  chiefs  that  group 

below. 
Tliere  iiriiiee   and    iioltle   ndind   the 

board  are  met. 
Who  fought    those  lights   embalmed 

in  bis|«)>y  yet  ; 


MICHELL. 


37  i 


But  thoughts  of  slaughter  past,  and 
blootl-stained  fields, 

Mar  not  the  joys  that  gorgeous  ban- 
quet yields ; 

Sparkles  in  cups  of  gold  rich  Cyprian 
wine. 

Melts  the  Greek  iig,  the  grapes  of 
Ora  shine; 

I'ears  from  fair  J^actria  vie  with  Ker- 
man's  peach, 

And  fruit  from  climes  e'en  Greeks 
have  failed  to  reach  — 

Hot  Indian  Isles,  to  Scythia's  moun- 
tain snows,  — 

Each  luscious  orb  on  plates  of  crystal 
glows. 

Hark !  in  the  gilded  galleiy,  flute  and 
lyre ! 

Strains  soft  as  sighs  of  streaming 
love  resi^ire; 

Then  harp  and  sa<!fkbut  bolder  notes 
ring  out. 

Like  vlctoiy's  p«an  o'er  some  army's 
rout. 

And  thus  the^  revel ;  mirth  and  joy 
control 

The  sterner  thoughts,  the  high  as- 
piring soul; 

And  e'en  the  slaves,  in  sumptuous 
garments  dressed. 

Forget  their  toils  to  see  their  lords 
so  blessed. 


But  what  young  beauty  leans  be- 
side the  king. 

With  form  so  graceful,  air  so  lan- 
guishing ? 

While  other  maids  are  glittering  dowTi 
that  hall, 

A  luuon  mid  earth's  sweet  stars,  she 
dims  them  all. 

1  Icr  mask  is  off,  unveiled  her  radiant 
head, 

A  lovelier  veil  those  flower-boimd 
tresses  spread ; 

A  spangled  zone  her  Grecian  robe 
confines, 

ilright  on  her  breast  a  costly  diamond 
shines, 

But  oh,  more  bright,  that  eye's  en- 
trancing ray 

Melts  where  it  falls,  and  steals  the 
soul  away  1 


Who    looks  must    look    again,   and 

sighing  own 
Earth  boasts,  than  tyrant  Love's,  no 

mightier  throne: 
Woman  was  born  to  vanquish,  —  he, 

the  brave. 
The    nation-tramijler,     bowed,     her 

veriest  slave: 
Yes,   beauteous  Thais,   with   Love's 

flag  unfurled. 
Conquered    the    blood-stained    con- 

(jueror  of  the  world ! 


THE   PAUADISE   OF  CABUL. 

Oil,  who  Cabul's  sweet  region  may 

behold. 
When  spring  laughs  out,  or  autunm 

sows  her  gold. 
The    meadows,     orchards,     streams 

that  glide  in  light, 
Nor  deem  lost  Irem  charms  again  his 

sight ; 
That     wondrous     garden    rivalling 

Eden's  bloom. 
Too  blessed  for  man  to  view,  this  side 

the  tomb  ? 
Flowers   here,   of    every  scent    and 

form  and  dye. 
Lift  their  bright  heads,  and  laugh 

upon  the  sky. 
From    the   tall    tulip   with   her   rich 

streaked  bell. 
Wheie  throned  in  state.  Queen  Mab 

is  proud  to  dwell. 
To  lowlv  wind-flowers  gaudier  plants 

eclipse.  |lil)S. 

And  pensile  harebells  with  their  dewy 
There  turns  the  heliotrope  to  court 

the  sun. 
And  uj)  green  stalks  the  starry  }\\<- 

mines  run : 
The  hyacinth  in  tender  pink  onfvi.s 
Beauty's     sofi     cheek,    and     violets 

match  her  eyes; 
Sweet  breathe  the  henna  flowers  that 

harem  girls 
So  love  to  twine  among  their  glossy 

curls; 
An<l  here  the  purple  pansy  springs  to 

birth. 
Like  some  gay  insect  rising  from  llie 

earth. 


372 


MICKLE. 


<  )ne  sheet  of  bluuia  the  level  green- 
sward yit'ltls. 

And  sinipio  daisies  speak  of  England's 
lifl.N; 

Urawu  by  sweet  odor's  spell,  in  hum- 
ming glee, 

Flits  round  tiie  gloomy  stock,  the  rob- 
ber-bee. 

While  to  the  gorgeous  musk-rose,  all 
night  long. 

The  love-siek  bulbui  poui-s  ids  melt- 
ing song: 

Then,  too.  tlie  fruits  thiougli  nioiitiis 
that  liang  and  glow. 

Tempting  as  tliose  which  wrought 
our  mother's  woe. 

Soft  shines  tiie  mango  on  its  stem  so 
tall. 

Kich  gleams  beneath,  the  melon's 
golden  ball; 

How  feasts  the  eye  upon  the  bell- 
sliapt'd  pear! 

Dright  cherries  look  I  ike  corals  .strung 
in  air; 

riie  i)urple  plum,  the  grape  the  hand 
mav  reach. 


Vie   with    the    downy-skinned    and 

l)!iisiiiiig  i>eai;h; 
Though  small,  its  place  the  luscious 

siiiiubciiy  claims. 
Mid  snowy  llowers  the  radiant  orange 

tlames ; 
To   quench    the    thirst    the    coolinu 

giia\  a  see. 
And  ripe  pomegranates    niMliiig  on 

the  tree. 
And    iiere.    too,    Englan<l"s   favorite 

fruit  is  seen. 
The    red-ch»'eked    apple,    veiled    by 

leaves  of  green: 
.\hlut  the  sight,  sweet  thoughts  of 

home  awake, 
AikI  foreign  lands  are  welcomed   for- 

its  sake. 
Thrice   genial    clime!     O    favurec 

sweet  (  abul ! 
Well  art  thou  named  the  blessed,  the 

beautifid! 
Willi  snow-peaktsi  hills  around  thee. 

—  giiardinL,'  arms! 
•Vh!  would  tliy  sons  were  worthy  of 

tliv  rjianns! 


William  Julius  Mickle. 


TIIK  SAILOliS    WIFE. 

A.VD  an-  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  \r  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  lime  to  think  o"  wark  '.' 

\  e  jadis.  lay  liy  your  wheel: 
Is  Ibis  tlif  tJMii-  to  spin  a  lliit-ail. 

Wln-n  ColJUH  at  the  door'.' 
'leaeb  down  my  eloak,  I'll  tolherpiay, 

And  see  him  foiin'  ashore. 
For  there's  nac  lurk  about  the  liousc, 

Tin-re's  nat-  luck  at  a'; 
There's  little  pji-asure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Ami  gie  to  me  my  bli;oni't, 

.My  bishop' H-sal in  j^own; 
For  I  maim  tell  the  bailiie's  wife 

'I'bai  (  olin's  iti  the  town. 
My  Turkey  sli|>|M-rs  maun  (jae  on 

My  .ilockin's  p«uirly  blue; 


lis  a"  to  i)lcasure  our  gudeman, 
For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Kise,  huts,  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside, 

I'ut  on  the  iinickle  pot ; 
•  iif  little  Kale  her  button  gown, 

And  .loi'k  bis  .Suinl.iy  coiit ; 
And  mak'   their   slioon    as    bl:i<k  aa 
sl.ws. 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw; 
It's  a'  to  ]ilease  my  :iin  gudeman. 

For  he's  been  loni^awa'. 

There's  fwa  fat  bens  upo'  the  coop 
Been  fed  this  month  and  mair; 

Mak'    baste   and    Ihraw    their  necka 
:dioMl. 
Tlial  (  olin  weel  may  fan  : 

And  spn:i(|  ilie  i.dile  Heat  ami  •jean, 
(iar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 


MILLER. 


373 


For  wlia  can  tell  how  C^lin  fared 
When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his 
speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair,  — 
And  will  I  see  his  face  attain  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  dowm-ight  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet! 


If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave: 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave: 
And  will  1  see  his  face  a^ain  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

AVhen  our  gudeman's  awa'. 


Abraham  Perry  Miller. 


[From  Consolation.'] 
REFUGE  FROil  DOUBT. 

0  LOViNO    God    of    Nature!    who 

through  all 
Hast  never  yet,  betrayed    me  to  a 

fall.  — 
While  following  creeds  of  men  I  went 

astray, 
And  in  distressing;  mazes  lost  my  way ; 
But  turning  back  to  Thee,  I  fouml 

Thee  true, 
And    «weet    as   woman's    love,   and 

fresh  as  dew.  — 
Henceforth  on  Thee,  and  Thee  alone 

I  rest. 
Nor  warring  sects  shall  tear  me  fi'om 

Thy  breast. 
While  others  doubt  and  wrangle  o'er 

their  creeds, 

1  rest  in  Thee  and  satisfy  my  needs. 


\_From  Consolation.'] 
TV  UN   TO   THE   HE  LP  Kit. 

As  when  a  little  child  returned  from 

play. 
Finds  the   door  closed   and   latched 

across  its  way, 
Against  the  door,  with  infant  push 

and  strain. 
It  gathers  all  its  strength  and  strives 

in  vain! 
Unseen,  within,  a  loving  father  stands 
And  lifts  the  iron  latch  with  easy 

hands; 


Then,  as  he  lightly  draws  the  door 

aside. 
He  hides  behind  it,  while  with  baby 

pride,  — 
A  iid  face  aglow,  in  struts  the  little  one. 
Flushed  and  rejoiced  to  think  what 

it  has  done,  — 
So,  when  men  find,  across  life's  rug- 
ged way. 
Strong  doors  of  trouble  barred  from 

day  to  day. 
And  strive  with  all  their  power  of 

knees  and  hands. 
Unseen  within  the  heavenly  Father 

stands, 
\m\  lifts  each  iron  latch,  while  men 

pass  through, 
Flushed  and  rejoiced  to  think  what 

they  can  do! 

Turn  to  the  Helper,  unto  whom  thou 
art 

More  near  and  dear  than  to  thy 
mother's  heart, — 

AVho  is  more  near  to  thee  than  is  the 
blood 

That  warms  thy  bosom  with  its  pur- 
ple flood  — 

Who  by  a  word  can  change  the  men- 
tal state 

And  make  a  bin-den  light,  however 
great ! 

O  loving  Power!  that,  dwelling  deep 
within. 

Consoles  oiu-  spirits  in  their  woe  anj 
sin, — 


374 


MILTON. 


^\^len  flays  were  dark  and  all   the 

\vorl<l  went  wroni;. 
Nor  any  heart  was  left  for  prayer  and 

song.  — 
When  hitter  lueniorj',  o'er  and  o'er 

a^'ain, 
Itevolved   the  wrongs  endured  from 

fellow-uii'ii; 
And  showed  how  hojies  decayed  and 

bore  no  fniil. 
And  He  who  placed  its  here  was  deaf 

and  nuite!  — 
If  then  Me  turned  on  (Jod  In  angry 

wise. 
And   scorned   his   dealings  with   rc- 

proacliful  eyes 
Questioned  his  goodness,  and  in  fool- 
ish wrath, 
Called  hojie  a  lie  and  ridiculed  our 

faith.— 
Did  we  not  find,  in  such  an  evil  hour, 
That  far  within  us  dwelt  this  loving 

Power  ? 
No  wrathful  Ciod  w  ithin,  to  smil^;  us 

down.  [frown; 

Or  tuni   his  fare   away  with   angry 
r.ul  ill  tlif  ItitttT  heart,  a  smile  hfgan. 
(irew,  all   at  once,  within,  and  up- 
ward ran. 
Broke  out  upon  the  face  —  and,  for 

awhile, 
Despite    all    bitterness,   we    had    to 

smile! 
liecause  (iod's  spirit  that  within  us 

lay,  [away! 

.Simply  rose  up,  aud  smiled  our  wrath 


This  love  endtires  through  all  things, 

without  end. 
And  every   soul   has  one   Almight) 

Friend, 
Whose  angels  watoh  and  tend  it  from 

its  birth. 
And  heaven  l)ecomes  tlie  servant  of 

tiie  earth!  (move 

Whafe'er  befall,  our  s])irits  live  and 
In  one  viist  ocean  of  Eternal  Love! 


[From  Consolation.'] 
KKKP   FAITH  IN  LOVE. 

Kkkp  faith  in  Love,  the  cure  of  every 

curse  — 
The   strange,    sweet   wonder  of   the 

universe! 
(Jod   loves   a    lover,   and   while   time 

shall  roll. 
This    wonder.  Love,   shall   save  the 

human  soul. 
Love  is  the  heart's  condition:  youth 

and  age 
Alike  are  sidtject  to  its  tender  rage: 
Age  crowns  the  head  with  venerable 

.snow. 
Hut  Life  and  Love  forever  mated  go; 
Along  life's   far    frontier,    the   aged 

move. 
One    foot    beyond,   and   iiotliing    left 

Itut  Love! 
And  when  tlie  miuI  its  mortiil  fears 

resigns.  [.shines! 

The  perfect  world  of  love  erounil  it 


John    Milton. 


OS  TIMF.  I  And  nniely  mortal  dross; 

So  lillie  is  olU"  los"*. 
Ft.Y,  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out    So  lilt).-  is  I  by  gain. 

thy  race.  |lioius.    For   when    .is   i-skIi   thing   bad    tboii 

Call     on    the    la/.y     li-aden-stepjiing  liasi  entombed. 

Wiiose  speed  i.H  but  the  heavy  i>ltim-    And   last   of  all  thy  greedy  self  con- 

met's  ]>afe;  sihihmI, 

And  glut  thyself  with  what  thy  vNi'inl'     Tbeii    loiii;   Kteniity   shall   greet   our 

devours,  liljss 

Wliirli  is  ho  more  than  what  is   false    With  an  individual  kiss; 

and  vain,  \  And  Joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  Hood, 


MILTON. 


375 


When  every  thing  that  Is  sincerely 

good 
And  perfectly  divine, 
With  truth,  and  peace,  and  love,  shall 

ever  shine 
About  the  supreme  throne 
Of  him,  to  whose  happy-making  sight 

alone 
When  once  our  heavenly-guided  soul 

shall  climb. 
Then,  all  this  earthy  grossness  quit, 
Attired  with  stars,  we  shall  forever 

sit, 
Triumphing  over  Death,  and  Chance, 

and  thee,  O  Time. 


L'ALLEGRO, 

Hexce,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight 

born, 
in  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks, 

and  sights  rniholy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell. 
Where  brooding  darkness  spreads 

his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night  raven  sings; 

There  under  ebon  shades  and  low- 
browed rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In   dark   Cimmerian    desert    ever 

dwell. 
But  eonie,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  Heaven  ycleped  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  V(;nus  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Ciraces  more 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 
The  frolic   wind   that   breathes   the 

spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing. 
As  h(!  met  her  onec  a-Maying, 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue. 
And   fn!sh-blown    roses    washed    in 

dew. 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with 

thee 
Jest  ami  youthful  .Jollity, 


Quips  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek, 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides, 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe, 
And  in  thy   right    hand   lead  wlt"a 

thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night. 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies,  ■ 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 
W^hile  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and 

horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 
Through    the    high  wood    echoing 

shrill : 
Some  time  walking,  not  imseen. 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate. 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light. 
The    clouds     in     thousand    liveries 

dight ; 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Wiiistles  o'er  tlie  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blitlie, 
And  the  mower  whets  ids  scythe. 
And  every  slie])lierd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new 

pleasures 
Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  meas- 
ures ; 
Russet  lawns  and  fallows  gray. 
Where  the  nil)bliiig  flocks  do  stray, 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest, 


876 


MILTON. 


Meadows  trim  with  daisies  piod, 
Sliallow  Ijruiilis  and  rivers  wide. 
Tuwers  and  iKittleUH'iils  it  si-es 
Hosonied  liiu;li  in  tufted  trees, 
Wliere  perhaps  some  heauty  Hes, 
Tile  cynosure  of  nei^lilwriug  eyes. 
Hani  Ijy,  a  cottage-eliininey  smokes, 
From  Ijetwixt  two  aged  oalis, 
Wliere  Corydon  and  Tliyrsis  met, 
Are  at  tlieir  savory  liinner  set 
Of  lierl)s,  anil  other  country  messes, 
AVhieh     the     neat-handed      Thyllis 

dresses: 
And  then   in  haste  her  bower,  she 

leaves. 
With  Tliestylis  to  l)ind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  tlie  earlier  si'ason  lead. 
To  the  lannrd  li:iy<i>(k  in  the  mead. 

Sonn'tinn's,  willi  .siMMire  delight, 
The  ujilaiid  handel>  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  l)ells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rehecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid 
Dancing  in  the  cheipiered  sliade; 
Anil   young  and  old  come  forth   to 

l.lay 
On  a  sunshine  holiday. 
Till  the  livflong.ia>li-lit  fail: 
ThiMi  to  tlie  spicy  MUt-iirown  ale. 
With  stories  fold  of  many  a  feat. 
How  Fairy  Mah  tin-  junkets  eat ; 
She    was    iiinche.l    and    pulled,    shf 

said. 
And  he  hy  friar's  lanlhorn  led; 
Tells  how  tin-  drudi,'iiig  goi'lin  sweat 
To  earn  his  eream-liowl  duly  s«t. 
When   in  one  night,  ere  glimi>se  of 

niurn. 
His  shailowy    Hail   had   thieshi-d   tin' 

corn. 
That  ten  day-lahorers  could  not  end: 
Then    lits    "him    down     the     luhher 

fl(>tid, 
\vu    sfrelciu'd  out  all  tin-  chinnuy's 

I.nulh. 
iJasks  at  th<-  tin-  his  hairy  strengiii, 
.\nd  crop-fidl  <)Ul  of  doors  he  lliiig«, 
Va>-  the  first  eock  his  matin  rings. 
Tluis   done    the   iHle.s,    ti>    i>ed    fhey 

eri-i'p, 
Hv    whIsjMTing    wind^    mmiu    Uillrd 

as|ci-]i. 
'I'owiumI  litirs  p|<>asi*  us  then, 
\iii|  th<-  huHV  hiuii  of  nit-n, 


Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons 

hol.l 
In   weeds  of    i)eaee    high   triiuuphs 

hold. 
With  store  of  ladies,   whose   bright 

eyes 
liain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit.  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win   her  grace,  whom  all  com- 
mend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  tjiper  <!<'ar. 
And  (lomp,  ami  feast,  and  n-velry, 
AVitli  masiiueand  antiipie  i)ageantry. 
Such  sights  as  youthful  iM>ets  dre.ini. 
On  summer  eves,  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  will-trod  sUigc  anon. 
If  tlonson's  learned  suck  be  on. 
Or    sweetest    Shakespeare,    Fancy's 

chiKI, 
Warble  his  native  wood-not»>s  wild. 

And  evi'r  against  eating  cares 
La]i  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  melting  soul  may  jiieree. 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linivi'd  sweetiu'ss  long  drawn  out. 
With  waiUon   heed,  and  giddy  cim- 

iiiug. 
The   ineliing    voice    througli    maze.n 

running, 
rnlvvisliiiu  ail  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  sumI  of  harmony; 
That    Orpheus"   self    m;iv  heave   his 

In-ad 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
( tf  heaped  Klysiau  flowers,  ami  heai 
Such  strains  as  would   bavi;  won  the 

ear 
( »f  I'luto,  to  have  (|uiti'  h«'l  free 
His  lialf-reL,'ained  Kurydice. 

'I'hese  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
iMirtii,  with  thee  i  mean  to  live. 


n.  I'FSsHunsit. 

Hi",N<'K,  vain  delmling  joys. 

Thi!   brood  of   folly,    without   father 

bre.l! 
How  little  you  be.steiul. 
Or  (ill  the  tixed  niiml  \Nith  all  yoiu 

toys! 
DwidI  in  some  Idle  brain, 


Mil  TON 


37' 


A.nd  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes 

possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the 

simbeauis, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 
The  fickle  pensioners  of  Moi-pheus' 

train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and 

holy ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
\Vliose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
!  o  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
. lid  therefore  to  our  \\eaker  view 
' '"erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's 

hue: 
iMack,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might   be- 
seem, 
•  "r  that  starred  Etliiop  quee.n,  that 

strove 
1  o  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers 

offended : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended ; 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitaiy  Saturn  bore; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glinunering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  denuu'e, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn. 
Over  thy  decent  slioulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  tliy  wonted  state. 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 
And    looks    conunercing    with     the 

skies, 
Thy  rapt  soid  sitting  in  thine  eyes: 
There,  held  in  lioly  passion  still. 
Forget  thyself  to  inarl)l(',  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast, 
Thou  lix  them  on  tli(>  earth  as  fast : 
And  join  with  thee  calm  peace  and 

quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  ofl  with  (Jods  doth 

diet. 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  .Jove's  altar  sing; 


And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleas 

ure ; 
But  first  and  chief  est  with  thee  bring, 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 
Guiding  the  hery-wlieeled  throne. 
The  cherub  Contemplation; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight. 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia    checks    her  dragon 

yoke. 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak; 
Sweet  bird,  that  shunn"st  the  noise  of 

folly. 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,     chanlress,     oft     the     woods 

among, 
I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-sliaven  green. 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon. 
Hiding  near  her  highest  noon. 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heavens'  wide  pathless 

way; 
i\jid  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 
I  hear  tlie  far-off  curfew  sound. 
Over  some  wide-watered  sliore. 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar. 
Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still,  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the 

room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 
Save  tlie  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  on  some  high  lonely  tower. 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 
With    thrice-great    Hermes,    or  un- 

sphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  imfold 
What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions 

hold  [sook 

The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  for- 
Hcr  mansion  in  this  lleshly  nook; 
Anil  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground. 


378 


MILTO^. 


^^1lose  power  hath  a  tnie  consent 
With  planot.  or  with  element. 

Sonit'tinic  h't  gorgeous  'I'nigeily 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Tht-Jx's,  or  IVlops'^ine, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine. 
Or  what  (though  nire)  of  latrr  age, 
Ennobled  hath  the  biiskim-d  stage. 

But,  O  sail  virgin  I  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musanis  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Oipheus  sing 
Such  notes  as.  warbled  to  the  string. 
Drew  iron  tears  iK>wn  I'luto's  chrek. 
Anil  made  hell  grant  what  love  did 

seek ; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  storv  of  (ambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camliall.  and  of  .Mgarsife, 
And  who  had  ("anact;  to  wife. 
That  ownt'd   the  virtuous   ring  and 

glass ; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride; 
And  if  aught  else  great  banls  besidf 
In  >-ag<'  anil  solemn  times  have  simg, 
Of  tounu'vs  and  of  tro])bi<s  hung; 
Of  fnri'sts  and  encliantnii  iits  dn-ar. 
Where  mon-  is  meant  than  mcrts  the 

ear. 
Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale 

career, 
'Till  civil-suited  Morn  appi  ar. 
Not  tricked  and  frounc<'d  as  siie  was 

wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 
Hut  kerchiefed  in  a  CDUudy  cloud, 
While  roeking  winds  are  jiiping  loud. 
Or  ushered  with  a  sliower  ^lill. 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  till. 
Knding  on  the  nislling  leaves, 
Willi    minute    drops    from    otT    the 

eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  (ling 
His  (laiing  beams,  me.  goddess,  liring 
To  aribed  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And    shadows    brow7i.    that    Sylvan 

loves, 
Of  pin<*  or  monumetilal  oak. 
Where    tlie   rude    axe   with    heaved 

stroke 
Was   never    h<.'ftrd,   the  Nymphs  lo 

d.-iunt. 
Or  fright  tbem   from   their  hallowed 

haunt. 


There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look. 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh. 
That  at  iier  llowtiy  work  doth  sing. 
And  111;'  waters  nnuinuring. 
With  such  consort  as  they  keep. 
Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep: 
And    let    some    strange    mysterioiui 

dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  disi>layed. 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid: 
And  as  1  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  undcniealh. 
Sent  by  some  si>iril  to  mortals  good. 
Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wikmI. 

Hut  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
.Vnd  lo\e  the  high  cnd)owed  roof. 
With  antic  i>iilars  ma-sy  |)roof, 
.\nil  storied  windows  richly  dight. 
Casting  a  «lim  religious  light. 
There  let  the  iicaling  organ  blow. 
To  the  full-voiced  choir  ludow. 
In  .service  high,  and  anthems  clear. 
As    may    with     sweetmtss,    through 

mine  ear. 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
.\nd   bring   all    heaven   before  nunc 

eyes. 
.Villi  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Kind  out  the  ]>eaceful  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 
Where  I  may  sit  ;in<l  righlly  s|»cll 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  sinnv, 
.\nd  every  herb  th.it  sips  the  dew; 
Till  old  ex]>crience  do  attain 
To  something  like  ]irophetic  strain. 
These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give 
.\nd  I  with  thee  will  ehoo.se  to  live. 


so.\(;  ft\  Ml r  .\fonyixn. 

.Now  the  bright   morning  star,  day's 

harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and 

leads  with  her 
The    flowery    May,    who    from    lii-r 

U'reeii  l.ip  throws 
The    yellow    eowslip,    and    the     pale 

l>rimros(?. 


MIL  TON. 


379 


Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  in- 
spire 

Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dress- 
ing, 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  bless- 
ing. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early 
song. 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee 
long. 


STANZAS  FROM  "HYMN  ON  THE 
NATIVITY." 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  man- 
ger lies; 
Nature  in  awe  to  Him  " 

Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim. 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympa- 
thize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty 
paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  inno- 
cent snow, 

And  on  her  naked  shame. 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to 
throw, 

Confounded  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul 
deformities. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease. 
Sent  dowTi  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 
She,   crowned   with   olives    green, 

came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  tuining  sphere 
His  ready  harbinger. 
With    turtle     wing    the    amorous 

clouds  dividing. 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
Hhe  strikes  a  universal  peace  through 

sea  and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound. 
Was  heard  the  world  around: 


The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high 
up  hung, 
The  hooked  chariot  stood, 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood, 
The    tnun])et    spake    not    to  the 
armed  throng, 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 
xVs  if  they  surely  knew  their  sover- 
eign Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night. 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth 

began : 
The  winds  with  wonder  whist 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed. 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild 

ocean, 
AVho  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave. 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on 

the  channed  wave. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

WuEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is 

spent 
Ere    half  my  days,   in  this  dark 

world  and  wide. 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death 

to  hide. 
Lodged  with  me  useless,   though 

my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and 

present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning 

chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light 

denied  '?" 
I  fondly  ask :  but  Patience,  to  pre 

vent 
That    murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God 

doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts; 

who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him 

best:  his  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding 

sjjecd. 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  with- 
out n-st ; 
Tliey  also  seiTe  who  only  stand  and 

wait."' 


380 


MIL  TON. 


ox  liHA <  HI \(!    T H'AW T i- TIlllKE. 

How  soon    hath    Time,   the  subtle 

thief  of  youtli. 
Stolen  on  his  winji  my  three-and- 

twentieth  year! 
My   liiLsting  ilays  fly  on  with   full 

cart'iT, 
But  my  late  spring  no  butl  or  blos- 
som slieweth. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive 

the  truth, 
That  1  to  manhood  am  arrived  so 

near. 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less 

appt^ar, 
That    some    more    timely -happy 

spirits  indu'th. 
Yet  be  it   less  or  more,  or  soon  or 

slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure 

even 
To  that  same  lot.  however  mean  or 

high. 
Toward  whieb  Time  leads  me.  and 

the  will  1)1  Heaven; 
All  is,  if  1  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master's 

eye. 


TO  A  r/nrrocs  yi)i.\<;  i.mjy. 

Lady,  that  in  the  i)rime  of  earliest 

youth 
Wisely    hast  sliunned    tbe    broa<l 

way  anil  the  green. 
And  with  thost,'  few  art  eminently 

seen. 

That  labor  up  the  hill  of  heavenly 

truth. 
The  iK-iter  i)art  with  Man'  and  with 

Itutb 
Chosen   thou  hast;  and  tlu-y  that 

overwiMii, 
And   at    thy   growing   virtues  fret 

their  spleen, 

.No  anu'er  fiml  in  thee,  but  pity  ami 
null. 
Thy  rare  is  (ixed.  ami   /.lalnnsly  at- 
tends 

To  till  tby  odfiriius  lamii  wllb  di'eds 
uf  light, 


And   h»>ite  that  reaps  not  shame. 

Till  r.fi  ire  be  sure 
Thou,  when  the  bridi-groom  with  his 

feast  ful  friends 
Passes  to  Idiss  at  the  mid-hour  of 

night, 
Hast   gained  thy   entrance,  virgid 

wise  anil  pure. 


\^Fmm  l'firn<l'i!.e  Lost.] 

THE  liOnEli   UF  ADAM  AND  EVE. 

Till-:  roof 
Of  thickest  covert  was  inwoven  shade. 
Laurel  and  myrtle,  and  what  higher 

grew 
Of  lirm  and  fragrant  leaf:  on  either 

side 
Acanthus,  ami  each  odorous  bushy 

shrub 
Fenced    up   the   verdant  wall;  each 

beauteous  (lower. 
Iris  all  luies,  roses,  and  jessanune 
Keared   high   their   llourished   heads 

between,  and  wrought 
Mosaic:  under  foot  the  violet. 
Crocus,  and  byacinth,  with  rich  iida\ 
IJroidered  tin'  groimd,  more  colored 

tliau  with  stone 
Of  costliest  emblem.     OtluT  creature 

here, 
IJeast,    bir»l,   ins«'ct,  or  worm,  durst 

enter  none: 
Such    was   their    awe    of    man.     In 

shadier  bowt^r 
More  sacred  and  sequestered,  though 

but  feigned. 
Pan   or  .Syhaiius   never    slept,    nor 

nymph 
Nor  Faunus  baunt«'.l.     Here,  inclose 

reee.sN, 
With    Mowers,   garlanils,  and  sweet- 
smelling  lierbs. 
KsiH)UHed  Kvedeckeil  first  bernui>tia) 

bisl. 
And  beaveidy  iliolrs  the  llymemean 

Hung, 
Wliat  day  tbe  genial  angel  to  our  sire 
Lruugbi    ber  in    iiak«Ml    beauty   morw 

a  Inriled. 
.More  lovidy  than  I'andoia.  wlmm  tbe 

gods 


MOIB. 


381 


Endowed  with  all  their  gifts:  and  oh! 
too  like 

In  sad  event,  when  to  the  unwiser  son 

Of  Japhet  brought  by  Hermes,  she 
ensnared 

Mankind  with  her  fair  looks,  to  be 
avenged 

On  him  who  had  stole  Jove's  authen- 
tic fire. 


{From  Paradise  Lost.] 
ArOSTROPHE   TO   LIGHT. 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven 
first-born, 

Or  of  the  Eternal,  co-eternal  beam. 

May  1  express  thee  iniblamed  ?  since 
God  is  Light, 

And  never  but  In  unapi>roa(hed 
light 

Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  tlien  in 
thee,  [create. 

Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  in- 

Or  liearest  thou  rather,  pure  ethereal 
stream. 

Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?  Be- 
fore the  sun. 

Before  the  heavens  thou  wert,  and  at 
the  voice  [vest 

Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  in- 

The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and 
deep, 

Won  from  the  void  and  formless  in- 
finite. 

Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing. 

Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though 
long  detained 


In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in 
my  flight 

Through  utter  and  through  middle, 
darkness  borne 

With  other  notes  than,  to  the  Orphe 
an  lyre, 

I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  night, 

Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  ven- 
ture down 

The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re- 
ascend. 

Though  hard  and  rare:  thee  I  revisit 
safe, 

And  feel  thy  sovereign  vital  lamp: 
but  thou 

Hevisitest  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in 
vain 

To  fintl  thy  piercing  ray,  and  Hud 
w)  (lawn; 

So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched 
their  orl)s. 

Or  dim  suttusion  veiled.  Yet  not 
the  more 

Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses 
haunt 

Cleai'  s[)ri]ig.  or  .shady  grove,  or  sun- 
ny hill, 

Smit  with  llir  love  of  sacred  song; 
but  chief 

Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks 
beneath. 

That  wasli  iliy  hallowed  feet,  and 
\varl)liug  flow, 

Niglitly  I  visit:  nor  sometimes  forget 

Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in 
fate,  [nowii, 

So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  re- 
Blind  i'harayris  and  blind  Mieonides. 


David  Macbeth  Moir. 


STANZAfi   FROM  "CAS A   WAPPY."  • 

Tiiv  bright  brief  day  knew   no  de- 
cline— 
'T  was  cloudless  joy; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine. 

Beloved  hoy!  (gay; 

This    morn   Ixdield  thee    blithe   and 
That  found  thee  proxtrate  in  ilecay: 
And  ei'c  a  third  slioue,  clay  was  clay, 
Casa  Wappy ! 


Gem  of  our  li(\art,  our  household  pride. 

Earth's  undcflled. 
Could    love   have  saved,  thou   hadst 
not  died, 
Our  dear,  sweet  chilil! 
Huiiilily  we  bow  to  F;il('"s  ilccree; 
Yei  had  we  hoped  that  'I'iiiie  shoulJ 

see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 
Casa  Wai)py! 


Tliu  put  uuiiiu  ot  Muir'i»  tioii. 


882 


MOMQOMERY. 


Methinks    thou    smil'st    before    me 
now, 
Witli  .iihinee  of  steiiltli; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full 
brow 
In  l)iioyant  healtli; 
1  see  thine  eyes'  deep  violet  Hght, 
Thv     (limi)lt'(l    cheek     carnationed 

bright, 
Tliy   clasjiinii    anus    so    round    and 
while, 

Casa  Wappy! 

The  nurseiy  sliows  thy  pictured  wall. 

Thy  Init,  thy  bow. 
Thy    cloak    and    bonnet,   club  and 
ball, 
But  where  art  thou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair; 
Thy  piaytliinL;s,  idly  scattered  there. 
But  speak  to  us  ot  our  despair, 
<.'asa  Wappy! 

Even  to  the  last,  thy  every  word  — 

To  glati  —  to  tjrieve  — 
Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 

On  sumnii-r's  eve; 
In  outwanl  licaiity  undecayed, 
Death  o"er  lliy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 
And,    like  the    rainlxiw,    tlii>u   iliilst 
fade, 

Casa  \Vai)py! 

We    mouni     for   tine,    wlien    bliml, 
blank  iiiiibt 
Tlieehamber  (ills: 
We  jtine  for  thee,  wlien  morn's  first 
lik'bt 
iieddena  the  liills; 


The  Sim,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
All  —  to   the  wall-llower   and   wild 

pea  — 
Are    chunjjed;     we    saw    the    world 

throujih  thee, 
('asa  Wappy! 

And  Ihoujih,  perchance,  a  smile  may 

L;leam 
Of  casual  mirth. 
It  doth  not  own,  wbale'er  may  seem 

An  inward  birlh; 
We  miss  ihy  small  step  on  the  stair; — 
We    miss    thee     at    thine     eveninj; 

pr.iycr: 
All  day  we  mi>>  thee  — everywhere — 

Casa  Wajipy! 

Snows  nuillied  eaVtii  when  thou  did-l 
go. 
In  life's  sprint;  bloom. 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below — 

The  silent  lomli. 
Mut  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
Tbe  cuikoo.  and  the  busy  bee, 
Keturn  —  but    willi  lliem    brini,'    noi 
thee. 

Casa  Waj'py ! 


Farewell    tlnii  —  lui     a    while    fare- 
well— 
Priiie  of  my  liiart  I 
it  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell. 

Thus  lorn  apart. 
Tim''><  sbadows  like  the  shuttle  rt<H«; 
Anil,  dark  howe'er  life's  night   niav 

be. 
Jieyond  llH'uravi-  111  nicii  with  thee 
( 'asa  Wappy ! 


James  Montgomery. 


LOVK  OF  CorsritY  ASD  i)F 
llt).\IK. 

TllK.nK.  is  a  laud,  of  evi  ry  laud  tlic 
pridr. 
H<doved  by  Ihuven,  o'er  all  tbe  world 
beside ; 


Wliere  lirigb'er  suns  dlsiH'nBP  seroner 

liubi. 
.\nd    mildi'i    moons   ejuparadise  tbe 

iiiubt : 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor.  Irulb, 
Time-tiUored    age    and     love-i-xalli  .1 

youth: 


MONTGOMERY. 


383 


The  wandering   mariner,  whose  eye 

explores 
The  wealthiest   isles,  the   most   en- 
chanting shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bovmtiful  and 

fair. 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air; 
In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles 

to  that  pole ; 
For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar 

grace. 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race, 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely 

blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the 

rest: 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  c.asts 

aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and 

pride, 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly 

blend 
The    sire,    the     son,  the    husband, 

father,  friend: 
Here    woman    reigns;   the    mother, 

daughter,  wife. 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow 

way  of  life; 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful 

eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces 

lie; 
Around   her  knees  domestic  duties 

meet, 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her 

feet. 
*'  Where  shall  that  land,  that  s/joi  of 

('(irth  be  found  ?  " 
Art  thou  a  man  ?  —  a  patriot  ?  —  look 

around; 
Oh.  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  foot- 
steps roam. 
That  land  thy   country,  and  that 

spot  THY  HO.ME!" 


PRA  TEIi. 

PuAYKU  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 

TTttered  or  unexi)ressed ; 
Th(>  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 


Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh 

The  falling  of  a  tear; 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  Gotl  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try; 
Prayer    the    sublimest    strains    that 
reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath, 
The  Christian's  native  air; 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death; 
He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice 
Returning  from  his  ways ; 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 
And  say,  "Behold,  he  prays!" 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one, 
In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind, 

Wlien  with  the  Father  and  his  Son 
Their  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone ; 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads ; 
And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne. 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

O  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 
The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 

The   path   of   prayer  Thyself    hath 
trod ; 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray ! 


THE   COMMON  LOT. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past. 
There  lived  a  man;  and  who  was 
he  ?■ 

Mortal!  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  I'egion  of  bis  birth, 
The  land    in    which    lie   died    nn- 
linow  n : 
His    naim-    has    perished    from    tliu 
earth. 
This  truth  survives  alone  : 


884 


MONTGOMERY. 


Tliat  joy,  ami  i:ri»'f,  aii.l  iiuif.  ami 
feai-, 

AlliTuate  irimui'hiM  in  liis  breast; 
llis  bliss  and  wo  —  a  smile,  a  Uar! 

Oblivion  hides  tin*  ivsi. 

riie  bounding  pulse,  tlie  languid 
limb, 

The  changing  si>lrits'  rise  and  fall; 
We  ki  ow  that  these  were  tilt  by  him. 

For  these  arc  felt  by  all. 

He  suffered  —  but  his  pangs  are  o'er; 

Enjoyed  —  but  ids  deliglits  are  lied; 
Had  friends  —  ins  friends  are  now  no 
more; 

And  foes  —  his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved  —  but  whom  he  loved  the 
gnive 
IJatii  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb: 
Oh,  she  was  fair!  but  naught  eouid 
save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  wliatever  tijou  liast  seen: 
Encountered  all  tiiat  troubles  t lice; 

He  was —  whatever  liiou  liast  Ijeen; 
He  is  —  what  thou  siiall  lie. 

The  rolling  seasons  —  day  and  night, 
Sim,  moon,  and  stars,  llieeuith  and 
main, 

Erewhile  iiis  portion,  life  ami  ligiit, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  suiilicaiii-<,  o'er  his 
eye  [threw. 

That  once  their  shades  anil  glory 
Have  left  in  yomlt-r  silent  sUy 

No  vestige  wiiere  tiny  llew. 

The  annals  of  tin-  Iniiiiaii  rare. 

riirir  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 
'  »f  liim  atfonl  no  other  trace 
Tijan  tills  —  tiiere  lived  a  man! 


Asr/n.iri(>.\s  or  yorr/i. 

lIjrMlKii,  highir  will  W4-  climb. 

Up  to  tin-  mount  of  giory, 
Vli.at   our   names   may   liv«!   tiiiougii 
lime 

tn  our  country's  storj': 


Happy  when  her  welfare  calls, 
lie  who  comiuers.  he  who  falls. 

Deeper,  deeper,  let  lus  toil 
In  tile  mines  of  knowledge: 

Nature's  wealth  and  learning's  spoil 
Win  from  .sciiool  and  eoilegi-; 

Delve  we  tiiere  for  riolier  gems 

Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

Onward,  onwar  1  may  we  press 
'I'lirougli  the  path  of  duty; 

Virtue  is  true  happiness, 
Excellence,  true  beauty. 

Minds  are  of  celestial  birth; 

Make  we  tlien  a  heaven  of  earth. 

Closer,  closer  let  us  knit 
Hearts  and  iiands  together, 

Wiiere  our  lireside  comforts  sit 
In  the  wildest  weather; 

Oh!  they  wander  wiile  wl>o  roaiu. 

For  the  joys  of  life,  from  home. 


Fnuisi)  MTKii  Finr.sn  dk- 
/'.u:rs. 

Fkik.M)  after  fii.ud  departs; 

Wiio  liatli  not  lost  a  friemi  ? 
There  is  no  union  iiere  of  hearts 

'I'iiat  tinds  not  iicre  an  end: 
Were  lids  frail  world  our  liiiai  ivst. 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  lilest. 

Heyond  tids  flight  of  time  — 
iJeyoiid  the  reign  of  death, — 

'I'lieri'  siiri'ly  i"  some  lilessod  clime 
Wlier*'  life  is  not  a  bnaili ; 

Nor  life's  affections  tninsient  lire. 

WIkw  sparks  lly  ujtw.ird  and  expira 

Tiiere  is  a  worlil  above 

Wiiere  parting  is  unknown: 

A  long  eternity  of  love. 
Formed  f«ir  the  good  alone: 

,\nd  failli  liehoids  llie  dying,  heiv, 

Tr.iiisialed  to  tliat  glorious  sphere! 

Thus  star  l)y  star  declines, 

Till  all  aif  i>ast  away. 
.\s  moiiiini;  liii.'h  and  iiJL'lier  shines, 

To  luire  ami  jierfcct  ilay ; 
Nor  siiil*  iliose  .stars  In  empty  night, 
Hut  hid''  iliciiiselves  in  heaven's  own 
light. 


MOORE. 


FOR  EVER   WITH  THE  LOUD. 

"  FoK  ever  with  the  Lord ! '? 

Amen!  so  let  it  be: 
Life  fioiu  tlie  ilead  is  in  thai  word: 

'Tis  imniorliiUty  I 

My  Father's  house  on  high, 
Home  of  my  soul!  how  near, 

At  times,  to  faith's  aspiring  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  ai)pear! 

"  For  ever  with  the  Lord!" 
Father,  if   't  is  Thy  will. 

The  promise  of  Thy  gracious  word. 
Even  here  to  me  ftiitil. 


Ce  Thou  at  my  riyht  hand: 

.So  shall  1  never  fail; 
Uphold  Thou  nie  and  1  shall  stand; 

Help,  and  i  shall  prevail. 

So,  wlien  my  latest  breath 
Shall  rentl  the  veil  in  twain, 

Ey  death  I  shall  escape  from  death, 
And  life  eternal  yain. 


Knowing  "as  I  am  known," 
How  shall  I  love  tliuL  word, 

And  oft  repeat  before  the  throne, 
"For  ever  with  the  Lord." 


Thomas  Moore. 


{From  Lalla  Roohh.] 

ESTRAiWGEMEXT  THROUGH 
TRIFLES. 

Alas  —  how  light  a  cause  may  move 
Dissension  between  hearts  thai  love! 
Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had 

tried 
And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied; 
That  stood  the  storm,   when  waves 

were  rough, 
Yet  in  a  s\mny  hour  fall  off. 
Like  ships,  that  have  gone  down  at 

sea, 
When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity! 
A  something  light  as  air — a  look. 

A  word  imkiiid  or  wrongly  taken  — 
Oh!  love  that  temj pests  never  shook, 
A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath 

shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  be- 

And  eyesforgi>t  the  gentle  ray' 
They  w(>re  in  i'oiu'islii]i"s  smiling  day; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said,* 
Till  fast  declining,  one  l)y  one. 
The  sw(H-tnesses  of  love  are  gone. 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like    I)roken    clouds, —  or    like    the 
stream, 


That    smiling    left   the  monntain's 
brow. 
As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could 
sever. 
Yet  e'er  it  reached  the  plain  below. 
Breaks  iuto  floods  that  part  forever. 

O  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  Iom-. 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound! 
As  in  the  lields  of  bliss  above 

He    sits,    with    flowerets    fettered 
roimil ; 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings, 
Nor  ever  let  him  us'>  his  wings 
For  even  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  "their 

light. 
Like  that  celestial  bird, —  M'hose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  eastern  skie.s. 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when 
at  rest. 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies. 


[From  Lalla  Rookh.} 

RECoaxfT/o.y  OF  .t  (os(;i:\i.\L 
s  fit;  IT. 

On!  there  arc  looks  and  tones  thaJ 

dart 
An    instant    sunshine    through    tin 

heart, — 


386 


MOORE. 


As  if  the  soul  that  iniimtt'  cau!,'lit 
tjuiiu'   treasure   it    tliroui^h   life    had 
soui^lit ; 

As  if  tlie  very  lips  and  eyes 
rrotiestiiu'd  tu  liave  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then. 

ho  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone. 
When  lirst  on  me  tliey   breathed  and 

shone 
New,    as     if    brought    from    other 

spheres. 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years! 


THE  lili:i>  LET  LOOSE. 

TiiK  bird,  let  loose  in  eastern  skies. 

When  hastening  fondly  home. 
Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor 
flies 
Where  iille  warblei-s  roam; 
liut  high  she  shoots  through  air  and 
iiglit, 
Above  all  low  delay. 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her 
(light. 
Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care. 

And  slain  of  jiassion  free, 
Aloft,  tiuuugii  N'irtui's  purer  air, 

To  hold  my  (•our>e  to  'riae! 
No  sin  to  cloud —  no  lure  to  stay 

My  soul,  as  home  >lie  springs;  — 
Thy  sunsiiine  on  lur  joyful  way; 

'i'hy  freedom  in  her  wingsl 


OFT  IS  THE   STILLY  MiillT. 

<)i  1  in  I  lie  stilly  uiglil. 

I!ri'  sliunbtr's  cliain  has  liniind  mkv 
I'liud  unniory  brings  the  light 
Of  oilier  days  around  me: 

Tbr  smiles,  the  tears, 

Of  Itoyhooil'.s  years, 
The  words  <»f  love  then  siK)krn; 

Tin-  <V'>  lliat  shone, 

\(»w  iliiiiiiii'il  and  uone. 
The  chtjcrfui  ln-art.i  now  broken. 


Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Kre  slund)er's  chain  has  boimd  me. 
Sad  luclnory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  1  remend)er  all 

Till'  friends  so  linked  together 
I've  seen  around  nie  fall, 
Ijike  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  lian(|uel-hall  deserted, 
WliOM-  lights  are  lied, 
Wlu>se  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed. 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 
Kre    slunil)er's    chain    has   bound 
me. 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  nie. 


0   TllOV   WHO  fifll-.ST  THE  MOVRS- 
Eli  a   TEA  It. 

O   Tiicur  who  dry'st  the  mourner's 
tear! 
How  dark  this  world  would  l)e. 
If,  when  deceived  and  woun«led  here, 

We  could  not  lly  to  'Jhee. 
The   friends,   who   in   our  sunshine 
11  v.-. 
When  winter  comes,  ar«'  flown: 
And  he.  who  has  but  tears  to  give, 

Musi  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But    Thou    wilt    heal    that     i>rokcn 
heart. 
Which,  like  the  jdanls  that  throw 
Their  fragrance   fiom    the   woundetl 
part, 
Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When    joy    no    longer     soothes     or 
elieiMs. 
And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
\  inoint  nl's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears, 

1h  dimmed  and  vanished  too! 
Oh!   who  Wfjuld    bear   life's   stormy 
doom. 
Did  not  Thy  wing  of  love 
Come,  briiibily  wafting  through   th« 

gloitUI 

Our  peaee-liraneh  from  above? 


MOORE. 


887 


Then  sorrow,  touched  by  Thee,  grows 
bright 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  sav/  by  day ! 


/  SAW  FROM  THE    BEACH. 

I   SATV   from   the  beach,    when   the 
morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  glori- 
ously on; 
I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach 
was  declining. 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the 
waters  were  gone. 

And   such   is  the  fate  of  our  life's 
early  promise. 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy 
wo  have  known ; 
Each  wave  that  Me  danced    on   at 
morning,  ebbs  from  us. 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak 
shore  alone. 

Ne'er    tell    me    of   glories    serenely 
adorning 
The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve 
of  our  night :  — 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild 
freshness  of  morning. 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth 
evening's  best  light. 

Oh,   who  would   not  welcome   that 
moment's  returning. 
When  passion  lirst  walvi'd  a  new 
life  through  his  frame  '? 
And  his  soul. —  like  the  wood   that 
grows  priMi-ious  in  burning; 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  ex- 
quisite flame ! 


COME,  YE  DISCONSOLATE. 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  you 
languish. 
Come,  at  tlio  shrine  of  God  fervent- 
ly kneel; 
Here    bring    your    wounded   hearts, 
here  tell  your  anguish  — 
Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven 
cannot  heal. 


Joy  of  the  desolate,  light  of  the  stray- 
ing, 
Hope,  when  all  others  die,  fadeless 
and  pure, 
Here  speaks  the  Comforter,  in  God's 
name  saying, 
"Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven 
cannot  cure." 

Go,   ask  the   infidel   what  boon   he 
brings  us, 
^Vhat  charm  for  aching  hearts  he 
can  reveal. 
Sweet  as  that  heavenly  promise  Hope 
sings  to  us  — 
"Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  God 
cannot  heal." 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

Those  evening  bells!  those  evening 

bells! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells. 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet 

time 
When  last  I  heard   their    soothing 

chime! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  w-as  gay. 
Within  tlie  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
.Vnd  hears  no  more  those  evening 
bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  T  am  gone, — 
That  tuneful  i^eal  will  still  ring  on; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these 

dells. 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening 

bells. 


THOU  ART,0  GOD. 

Tiior  art,  O  God!  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see; 
Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night. 
Are   hut   reflections    caught    from 
Thee. 
Where'er  we  turn  Thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and   bright  are 
Thine. 


3^8 


MORRIS. 


Wlien  day,  with  farewell  beam,  de- 
lays 
Ainoni;  the  opening  eloiuls  of  eveu, 
Autl  we  .an  aiinost  think  we  gaze 

Through  golden  visUis  into  heaven; 
Those  liue.-j,  ihai  make  the  sun's  de- 
cline 
So  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord!  are  Thine. 

When   night,    witii    wings  of  starry 

gloom, 
O'ershadows    all    the    earth     and 

skies, 
Like    some     dark,    beauteous    bird. 

whose  [ilume 
Is     sparkling     with     unnumbered 

eyes ; — 
That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 
So  grand,   so  countless.    Lord!    are 

Thiuc. 

When    youthful    spring    around    us 

breathes. 
Thv    spirit    warms    her    fragrant 

sigli ; 
And     every     flower     the     summer 

wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 
Where'er  we  (urn  Tliy  glories  sldne. 
And  all   tliinL,'s  fair  and   bright  are 

Thine. 


AS  si.ow  <nn  suif. 

Ah  slow  our  shijt  her  foamy  track 
Against  the  wind  was  cleaving. 


Her  tremblinir  pennant   still  lookcl 
back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love. 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us; 
So  turn  our  liearts.  where'er  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

When  round  the  bowl,  of  vanished 
years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming, — 
With  smiles,  that   might  as  well   bo 
tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Kach  early  tie  that  twined  us. 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

.S)me  isle  or  vaie  enchan'mg. 
Where  all  looks  flowerj-,  wild,  and 
sweet. 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had    been  our 
bli.ss, 

If  heaven  had  but  assigned  tis 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us! 

.\s  travellers  oft  look  liack,  at  eve. 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  u])on  that  light  they  le.ive 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing.— 
So,  when  the  dose  of  jilea-sure's  day 

To  l; loom  hath  near  <dnsigne<l  us. 
We  turn  to  cateh  one  fading  ray 

<  >f  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


George  P.  Morris. 

WOOTiM.iS,   sr.lltF    THAT  TIIER' 


WnopMA.v.  spare  that  tree! 

Toueb  not  a  sini;le  bough: 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me 

And  I'll  i>rotert  it  now, 
*Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  bis  cot; 
There,  wooibnan,  let  if  stand, 

Thy  axe  sh.ill  barm  it  not. 


That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  ^lory  and  renown 
Ares])rcad  o'er  land  ami  sen, 

.And  wonlilsl  thou  hew  it  ilown! 
WrK)dman,  forbear  thy  stroke! 

Cut  not  its  eartb-boimd  lies; 
Oh.  s]iare  that  aired  oak. 

Now  towering  to  the  skies. 


MORRIS. 


389 


When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy, 

Here,  too,  luy  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here; 

My  father  press'd  my  liand: 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear,  — 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 


My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

("lose  as  thy  bark,  old  friend! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  ^^ing; 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree!  the  storm  still  brave! 

And,  woodman,  leave  that  spot-, 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save. 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


William  Morris. 


[From  tke  Earthly  Paradise.] 
FEBRUARY. 

Noon,  —  and  the  northwest  sweeps 

the  empty  road. 
The  rain-washed  fields    from  hedge 

to  hedge  are  bare ; 
Beneath  the  leafless  elms  some  hind's 

abode 
Looks  small  and  void,  and  no  smoke 

meets  the  air 
PYom  its  poor  hearth :  one  lonely  rook 

doth  dare 
The  gale,  and  beats  about  the  unseen 

corn. 
Then  turns,  and  whirling  down  the 

wind  is  borne. 

Shall  It  not  hap  that  on  some  dawn 

of  May 
Thou  shalt  awake,  and,  thinking  of 

days  d(>ad. 
See  nothing  clear  but  this  same  dreary 

day, 
Of  all  the  days  that  have  passed  o  er 

thine  head  ? 
Shalt  thou  not  wonder;  looking  from 

thy  bed. 
Through  green  leaves  on  the  windless 

east  a-firc, 
That  this  day,  too,  thine  heart  doth 

still  desire. 

Shalt  thou  not  wonder  that  it  liveth 
yet. 

The  useless  hoi"',  ihe  useless  craving 
pain. 

That  made  thy  face,  tliat  lonely  noon- 
tide, wet 


With  more  than  beating  of  the  chilly 
rain  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  hope  for  joy  new-born 
again, 

Since  no  grief  ever  bom  can  ever  die 

Through  changeless  cliange  of  sea- 
sons passing  by  ? 


[From  the  Earthly  Paradisi.'] 
MARCH. 

Slayer  of    winter,   art    thou  here 

again  ? 
O  welcome,  thou  that  bring' st  the 

summer  nigh ! 
The  bitter  wind  makes  not  thy  vic- 
tory vain. 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faint 

blue  sky. 
Welcome.   ()   March!  whose   kindly 

days  and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's 

song. 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's 

wrong! 

Yea,  welcome,  March!  and  though  1 

die  ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee 

praise,  [time 

Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the 
That  even   now   I   liear  thy   brown 

birds  raise. 
Unmindful   of    the   i>ast   or   coming 

days;  I  gun! 

Who  sing.  "O  joy!  a  new  year  is  be- 
Whal   liappiness   to   look    upon    tlir 

sun! " 


390 


MORRIS. 


Oh,  what  bogetteth  all  this  stonn  of 
bliss. 

But  Death  himself,  who,  cr>iug  sol- 
emnly. 

Even  from  the  heart  of  sweet  forgel- 
fulness. 

Bids  us,  "Kejoice!  lest  pleasurelcss 
ye  die. 

Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 

Streteh  forth  your  open  hands,  and, 
while  ye  live. 

Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and 
Life  may  give  ?" 


{From  Ihv  F.nrlMy  Paradise] 
APniL. 

O  FAra  raidsprin?.  besung  so  oft  and 

oft, 
How    can    I    praise    thy    loveliness 

enow  ? 
Thy  siui   that  burns  not    and    tiiy 

breezes  soft 
That  o'er  the  blossoms  of  ilie  orehard 

blow. 
The  thousand  things  that  "neatli  llie 

yf)ung  leaves  grow. 
The  hojies  and  ehaiiees  of  the  grow- 
ing year. 
Winter  forgotten  long  and   summer 

near.  |rose. 

When  summer  brings  the  lily  and  the 
Slie  brings  no  fear;  her  very  death 

she  brings 
Hid  in  lier  anxious  liearl,  llie  forge 

of  woes; 
And    dull    with    fear,    no    more    the 

mavis  sings. 
Bui    thou!   lliou  diest    not.   i)ul    thy 

fresh  life  eliugs 
AboiU   the  fainting  autunnrs  sweet 

decay, 
When  in  the  earili  th.-  boprfid   sred 

they  la>. 

Ah  I  life  of  all  tit.'  >ear,  wliy  yel  do  I, 
Amid   tliy  snowy  blossoms'  fragrant 

drift. 
Still  Ion::  for  that  whiiji  never  dra\\  - 

elli  nigh. 
Striving   MiN  pleasure  from  mv  pain 

to  siiU 


Some  weight  from  off  my  llutterin;; 

mirth  lo  lift  :' 
—  Now   when   tar  bells  are  ringing, 

"  < DUie  again. 
Come  back,  past  years!  why  will  ye 

pass  in  vain  ?  " 


[From  the  Fnrthly  Paradise.] 
DFCFMIiKll. 

Deai>  lonely  night,  and   all  streets 

(piiet  now, 
Thin  o'er   llie   moon   the   hindmost 

cloud  swims  past 
( )f  that  great  niek  that  brought  us  uj) 

the  snow; 
On  earth,  .strang^  shadows  o'er  the 

snow  are  cast; 
Bale  stars,  bright  moon,  swift  eloud, 

make  heaven  so  va.st, 
That  earth,  left  sileut  by  the  wind  of 

night. 
Seems  shrunken  'neath  the  gray  un- 
measured height. 

Ah  I  Ihrough  the  hush  the  looked-for 

midnight  clangs! 
.Vnd  Iheii.  e'en  while  ils  hisL  stroke's 

solenui  drone 
In   the   cold    air    by    indit    windows 

hangs. 
Out  bn-ak  the  bells  above  the  year 

foredone. 
Change,  kindness  lost,  love  left  un- 
loved alone; 
Till  theirtlespairing  sweetness  makes 

thee  deem 
Thou  once  wert  loved,  if  bul  amidst 

a  dream. 

I  love. 
Oh.  ihou  who  eliiiu'e^l  still  to  life  and 
Though  naiighl  of  good,  no(io<l  thou 

mays!  discern. 
Though  naught  that  is,  Ihine  ulmost 

woe  can  move, 
Though   no   sold    knows   wherewith 

thine  heart  dolli  vearn. 
Vet,    since   ihy   wt-ary  lii>s  no  nirse 

can  learn.  (away. 

Cast  no  lea-l  thing  Ihou  lovedst  once 
Sln<ro  yel,  ]ierchance,  thine  eyes  sliaU 

sec  the  day. 


MOTHERWELL. 


391 


William  Motherwell. 


LAST  VERSES. 

[Given  to  a  Friend  a  day  or  two  before  the 
Writer's  Deatli.] 

When  I  beneatli  the  cold  red  earth 
am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er. 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye 
weeping 
That  I'm  no  more  ? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory 
keeping 
Of  heretofore  ? 

When  the  great  winds  through  learf- 
Icss  forests  rusliing 
fcjad  music  make ; 
When  the  swollen  streams,  o'er  crag 
and  gully  gushing, 

Like  full  hearts  break,  — 
Will    there   then  one,    whose  heart 
despair  is  crushing. 
Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot 
is  shining. 
With  purest  ray, 
And  the  small  liowers,  their  buds  and 
blossoms  twining, 
Burst  through  that  clay,  — 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot 
repining 
Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye 
of  glory 

On  that  low  moimd, 
And  wintry  stonns  have,  with  their 
ruins  hoary. 
Its  loneness  crowned,  — 
Will  there  be   tlion  one,  versed   in 
misery's  stoiy. 
Pacing  it  round  ? 

It  may  be  so, — but  this  is  selflsh 
sorrow 
To  ask  such  meed,  — 
A    weakness    and   a   wickedness    to 
borrow. 

From  hearts  that  bleed, 
The  wailings  of  to-day  for  what  to 
morrow 
•Shall  never  need. 


Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow 
dwelling, 

Thou  gentle  heart; 
And  though  thy  bosou"  should  \\ith 
grief  be  swelling. 
Let  no  tear  start : 
It  were  in  vain,  —  for  Time  hath  long 
been  knelling,  — 
"Sad  one,  depart!" 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE   TO  REND, 
WILLIE. 

My  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie. 

My  heart  is  like  to  l>reak; 
I'm  wearin'  off  my  feet,  Willie, 

I'm  dyin'  for  your  sake! 
O,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hanil  on  my  briest-bane,  — 
O,  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  dead  and  gane! 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will; 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  WUlie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  tlie  face,  Willie. 

I  never  sail  see  mairl 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee.  AVillie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life,  — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie! 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart 

And  press  it  niair  a:id  mair; 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  Strang  is  its  despair! 

O,  wae's  me  for  the  houi',  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met,  — 
O,  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set! 
O  wae's  me  tor  the  loanin'  greeu 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae,  —■ 
Anil  wae's  me  for  the  desfinie 

That  gurt  me  luve  thee  sael 


392 


MOTHERWELL. 


O,  diiiiui  iniiul  my  words,  Willie, 

1  downa  seek  ti)  hlaiiR': 
IJiit  (),  it's  hanl  lu  liv.-.  Willi.-, 

And  dree  a  wurld  s  sliauu! 
Hot    tears     are     liailin"    owt-r   your 
cheek, 

And  hailin' ower  your  chin: 
Why  weep  ye  sac  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow  and  for  sini* 


I'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  1  see, 
1  cannot  live  as  1  ha'e  lived, 

Or  1)1'  as  1  should  he. 
liW.  f:iidd  unto  yt)ur  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine. 
An  I  kiss  ance  mair  the  while,  white 
cheek 

Vi-  said  w;is  red  langsyne. 

\  stoun'  gaes  tliroui;h  my  heid,  Wil- 
lie, 

A  sair  stoun'  throui,'h  my  heart; 
Oh,  hand  me  up  and  Irl  me  kiss 

Thy  hrow  cp'  we  two  pairt. 
Anithrr,  and  anilher  yet!  — 

How  fast  my  lif«-slrin;;s  i)rt'ak!  — 
FarcWfcl!     faifwt.l  I     through     ytin 
kirk-yard 

.Step  lichtly  for  my  sake! 

The  lavcrork  in  I  hi-  lift.  Willi.-. 

'I'hat  lilts  far  ow.t  our  h.i.l. 
Will  s'wv^  the  morn  as  merrilie 

\hunt'  the  clay-caid.l  d.id; 
And    this    green    turf   we're   sitlin' 
on, 

Wi'  ilewnlnips  shimmcrin'  sheen, 
A  ill  hap  III.-  h.-aii  iii.it  liivit  thee 

As  warld  ha>  vMom  se.-n. 


Hu»  oh!  r.'iii.iiilM  T  ni.',  Willie, 

On  l.tn.i  whire'.r  y  ''.•; 
\nd  oh!  think  on  the  l.al,  leal  h.'.irt. 

That  ne'er  Invlt  an.-  hut  Ihec! 
And  o'.i!   think  on  th<'  laidd,  cauld 
m<M)l.s 

That  llle  my  yellow  hair. 
Tha;    ki^-    the   (h.-ek.   and  kiss  tin- 
•  hin 

Ye  uever  iiball  kins  mair! 


rilK   CAVALIRIVfi  SO.\G. 

A    .STKKI).  —  a    steed    of    matehlesa 
speed ! 

A  swor.l  of  m.'lal  k.-en! 
All  else  to  noble  hearts  is  dross, 

.Ml  el-i.'  on  eartli  is  mean. 
The  nei^hinu'i'f  tie-  war-horse  pi-oiul 

'I'll.'  iiijliiiu  of  Ih.'  drum. 
The  clangor  of  th.-  trnm|)et  lou.l. 

lie  sounds  from  hea\.n  that  come: 
An.l   oh!    the   thundering    juvss    of 
knights, 

Wheiias  their  war-criea  swell. 
May  toll'  from  heaven  an  angel  Itright. 

And  roUM-  a  lieud  from  hell. 

Then    ni.mnt !    th.-n    mount!    hrave 
g.iilinits  all. 

Aiiil  lion  your  helms  amain: 
Death's  couriers,    fame  and    honor, 
call 

T's  to  th.-  (i.'ld  again. 
No  shr.-wish  t.-ar  sliall  till  our  .-y«' 

When  the  sMoi.l-hilt's  in  our  hand: 
Heart-whole,  we'll  part,  and  no  whii 
sigh 

For  the  fairest  of  the  lan.l; 
Let  |iiping  swain  an.l  crav.-n  wight 

Thus  v.«  cp,  and  iiuling  .-ry. 
Our  linsin.->s  is  like  men  to  light; 

.\nd  hero-like  to  die! 


.IF.ASII:  MoiUtlsos. 
I'VK   wandt-red  east.    I've  wandered 

W.St. 

Tliiouu:h  inony  a  w.-ary  way; 
IJut  m-vcr.  n.-ver  can  forget 

The  Iiive  o'  lift's  young  day! 
The  (in-  that'.'<  hiawn  on  lieltane  e'.  n 

May  weel  he  i>laek  uin  Vule; 
Hut  hl.i.ker  ta'  awaits  the  lieAit 

Wh.-re  lirst  ftmd  hive  grows  cool. 

O  dear.  .I.ar  .I«-anie  .Morrison. 
The  tlio.hts  o'  hyganc  years 
Still    lling   their  sha«lows   owi-r   my 
l>ath. 
.And  lilin.l  my  ecu  with  tears: 
They  hlinil    my   e.-n    wi'  .saut,    saut 
ti-ars. 
An.l  sair  and  sick  1  pine. 


MOTHERWELL. 


393 


As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  bliuks  o'  langsyne. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time  —  sad  time  I  twa  bairns  at 
scule, 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
Twas    then    we    sat    on    ae    laigh 
bink 
To  leir  ilk  ither  lear; 
Ajid  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were 
shed, 
Remembered  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sittin;4  on  that  bink. 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in 
loof. 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think  ? 
\\lien  baith  bent  down  ower  ae  braid 
IJ'ige, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  ov  om*  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads. 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
When'er    the    scule-weans    laughin' 
said. 

We  cleeked  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  tlie  Saturdays 

(The  schule  then  skail't  at  noon) 
When    we    ran    off    to    speel     the 
braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  Jime  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about. 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane    by    ane    the   thochts    rush 
back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 
Oh,  momin'  life!  oh  mornin'  love! 

(Jh,  lichtsome  days  and  lang! 
When    hinnied    hopes     around    our 
hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang! 

Oh,  rainil  ye,  lure,  how  aft  we  left 
The  deavin',  dinsome  toun, 

To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 
And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 


The    simmer    leaves  hung  o'er  oui 
heads. 

The  lluw  ers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  buin  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  Aaluie'sheart  in  tunt, 

Concerted  liarmonies; 
And  on  the  knowe  abuue  the  bum 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o"  joy,  till  baitli 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trickle  down  your  cheek. 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nana 

Had  ony  jjower  to  speak! 
That  was  a  time,  a  l)!e^:^ed  lime, 

When  hearts  wci-e  tresii  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelin's  forth, 

Unsyllabied,  imsung! 

I  marvel,  .Jeanie  Morrison, 

(;in  1  hac  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  eailiest thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ! 
O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  tills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine! 
O,  say  gin  e'er  your  lieart  groM'S  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsynt;! 

I've  wandered  east,   I've  wandered 
west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near. 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  lirst  burst  frae  this 
lieart 

Still  travels  ou  its  way; 
And  cliannels  d(>eper,  as  it  rins. 

The  hive  o"  lifi!"s  youug  day, 

O  dear,  dear  .leanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindereil  yeung. 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue; 
But  1  could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  liai)py  could  1  dee. 
Did  1  but  ken  yoiu' heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  mel 


394 


NAIRN. 


THEY  COytR!    THE  MEItliY  S  CM  ME  I:   MOST  lis. 

Thkv  conn*!  tho  merry  siiinini'r  inontlis  of  bfaiily,  soiii:,  and  llowors; 

They  come'  the  tihuisoine  iiioiilhs  that  hrin;::  thick  lealiness  to  bowers, 

Up,  m*.  my  heart  I  and  walk  al)road;  Ming  carU  and  care  asiiie; 

.Seek  sih'nt  hills,  or  rest  thvM  If  where  peacefnl  waters  glide; 

Or,  luiderncath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal  tree. 

Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt  tranijuillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the  hand; 

And.  like  the  kiss  of  maidi-n  love,  the  lireeze  is  sweet  and  bland; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courteously; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kimlest  love,  to  bless  and  welcome  thee: 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks  —  they  now  are  silvery  gray- 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering,  "lie  gay!" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon  sky, 

l{ut  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it  melody: 

Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outsjiread.  all  gleaming  .like  red  gold; 

And  hark!  with  shrill  pii)e  musical,  their  merry  course  they  hold. 

God  bless  them  all,  those  little  one*,  who,  far  above  this  earth. 

Can  make  a  scotf  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 

Hut  soft!  mine  car  up<'aught  a  sound. —  from  yonder  wood  it  came! 
The  spirit  of  tht;  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his  own  glad  name;  — 
Yes,  it  is  he!  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart  from  all  his  kind, 
blow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western  wind; 
Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!  he  SiUgs  again. —  his  notes  are  void  of  art; 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  souu<l  the  deep  founts  of  the  heart- 
Good  Lord!  it  is  a  gracious  boon  fo;  tliought -crazed  wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  sinnmer  (lowers  b.ii<ath  this  sununer  tree! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  brealh  their  little  souls  away, 
An<l  feed  my  fancy  with  fon  1  dreams  of  youth's  bright  summer  day. 
When,  rushing  forth  like  uiilanicl  colt,  the  reeklos,  tiiianl  boy 
Wandered  through  greenw<iods  all  ilay  long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy! 

I'm  sadtler  now —  1  have  had  i-aiisc;  l»ut  oh!  I'm  ]>r<Mul  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore.  1  yet  rleligiit  to  drink:  — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm  (uiclouded  sky, 
Hiill  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days  goui-  by. 
\Vhen  summer's  loveliness  and  light  tall  roimd  inc  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  ciuse, —  a  heart  Ihal  hath  waxe<l  old! 


Lady  Caroline  Nairn. 

rill     I.  wit   »•  THE   I.EAL. 


Fm  wcarin'  awa',  .lean. 
Like  siiaw -wr<'ath«  in  thaw,  .ic.ui: 
I'm  wearin'  awa' 
To  the  Land  u'  the  Leal. 


'I'hern's  nae  sorrow  there,  .lean; 
Theie'.s  neitlier  cauld  nor  care,  .lean, 
The  da\'s  a\i'  fail 
r  the  Land  ..'  the  I.cal. 


NEWELL. 


805 


Our  bonny  bairn's  there,  Jean: 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean; 
And,  oh!  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  Jean  — 
And  joy  's  a-comin'  fast,  Jean,  — 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Sae  dear's  that  joy  was  bought,  Jean, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  Jean, 
That  slnfu'  man  e'er  brought 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


Oh,  dry  your  glistening e'e,  Jean! 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean; 
And  angels  beckon  iiie 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Oh,  baud  ye  leal  and  true,  Jean! 
Your  day  it's  wearin'  through,  Jean; 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Now,  fare-ye-well,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  Jean; 
We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain, 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


William  Newell. 


SERVE   GOD  AND   BE  CHEERFUL. 

"  Servk  God  and  be  cheerful."    The 
motto 
Shall  be  mine,  as  the  bishop's  of 
old; 
On    my  soul's  coat-of-arms,   I    will 
write  it 
In  letters  of  azure  and  gold. 

"Serve  Ood  and  be  cheerful,"  self- 
balanced, 
Whether  Fortune  smile  sweetly  or 
frown. 
Christ    stood     king    before    Pilate. 
Within  me 
I  carry  the  sceptre  and  crown. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."   Make 
brighter 
The  brightness  that  falls  to  your 
lot; 
The  rare  or  the  daily-sent  blessing. 
Profane  not  with  gloom  and  with 
doubt. 

"  Sen-e  God  and  be  cheerful."     Each 
sorrow 
Is  —  with  your  will  In  God's  —  for 
the  best. 
O'er  llie  cloud  hangs    the  rainbow. 
To-morrow 
Will  see  the  blue  sky  in  the  west. 


"  Sen'e  God  and  be  cheerful."     The 

darkness 

Only  musks  the  surprises  of  dawn ; 

Ajid   the   deeper    and    grimmer  the 

midnight, 

The  brighter  and  sweeter  the  morn. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."     The 
winter 
Rolls  round  to  the  beautiful  spring, 
And  in  Hr'  green  grave  of  the  snow- 
drift 
The  nest-building  robins  will  sing. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."    Look 

upward!  [gloom; 

God's     countenance    .scatters    the 

And   the  soft  sununer  light  of  His 

heaven 

Shines  over  the  cross  and  the  tomb. 

"Serve  Gotl  and  be  cheerful."     The 
wrinkles 
Of  age  we  may  take  with  a  smile; 
But  the  wrinkles  of   faithless   fore- 
boding Iguile. 
Are  the  crow".s  feet  of  Beelzebub's 

"  Serve  God  and  be  checrtiii."   Kelig- 

ion 

Looks  all  the  more  lovely  in  white; 

.\nd  God  is  best  served  by  His  servant 

\Vliiii,  smiling,   he  senes    in    the 

light; 


•/{9R 


NE  WMA  N  —  NOB  TON. 


Ami    lives  nut  the  glad  tidings  of 
.Jesus 
In  the  sunshine  He  came  to  im- 
part. 
For  the   fruit  of   Ilis  word  and   His 
Spirit 
"Is  love,  joy  and  peace"  in  tlie 
heart. 


"  Serve  Hod  ami  l)e  cheerful."     Live 
n<>i)ly. 
Do  rijiht   anil  do  good.     Make  the 
hest 
Of  the  gifts  and  the  work  put  hefore 
you. 
And  to  (iod,  without  fear,  leave  the 
rest. 


John  Henry  Newman. 


A    VOICE  FJiO.W  AVAR. 

Weep  not  for  me;  — 
Be  blithe   as  wont,    nor  tinge  with 

gloom 
The  stream  of  love  that  circles  home, 

I^ight  hearts  and  free! 
Joy   in    tlir   gifts   Heaven's   bounty 
lends; 
Nor  miss  my  face,  dear  friends! 

I  still  am  near;  — 
Watching    tiit!   smiles    1    prized   on 
earth;  niirtli; 

i'our  converse  milil,  your  blameless 

Now,  too,  1  hear 
Of    wliispt-red  sounds  the  tale  com- 
])lete. 
Low  prayers  and  nuisic  sweet. 

A  sc;i  before 
The  'riiroiitris  spreatl:  —  its  jiure  still 

glass 
I'ictuns  all  earth-scenes  as  they  pa.ss. 

We,  on  its  shore, 


Share,  ill  lln-  bosom  of  our  rest, 
(lod's  knowledge,  and   are  iilesseil, 


FLOfrKhs  inr/UKT  iinir. 

PkL'NK  thou  thy  words,  the  thoughts 
control 

That  o'er  thee  swell  and  throng: 
They  will  condense  within  thy  sold. 

Ami  change  to  piu'po>^c  strong. 

r.Mt  he  who  lets  his  feelings  run 

In  soil  luxurious  (low. 
Shrinks  whi-n  hanl  serviei;  nnist  Im; 
done. 

•Vnd  f.iints  at  I'Vt-ry  woe. 

Faith's    meanest    deed     more    fa\or 
bears. 
When  hearts  and  wills  are  Weighed. 
'I'han     biudiest     Iransjiort's    r-hoicesl 
pra\<'rs. 
Whi<*h  bloom  th<ir  hour  and  fade. 


Andrews  Norton. 


SrF.XF.  AFTKIC  A  SVMMFI:  SIKHnn. 

TuK  rain   is  o'er.     How  dense  and 
bright 
Yon  pearly  clomls  reposing  lie! 
I  loud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 
( 'out rant Iml;    with    the    dark    blue 
sky! 


In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 
TlieU'eneral  ble?<siiig;  fresh  and  fail 

Ka<di  Jlower  i-xpands  its  little  leaves. 
Ah  glad  the  couuuon  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  aroimd 
A  fairy  light,  uueertii.in,  pule; 


NORTON: 


397 


The  wind  blows  cool;   the  scented 
ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 


Mid    yon    rich    clouds'    voluptuous 
pile, 
Metliinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 
Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  awhile. 
Then   turn   to    bathe    and   revel 
there. 


The  sun  breaks  forth;  from  off  the 
scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung; 
And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 
With  trembling  drops  of  Ught  is 
hung. 


Now  gaze  on  nature,  —  yet  the  same; 
Glowing     with     life,    by    breezes 
fanned. 
Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 
Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own 
hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Wlii(;li     sounds    from    all    below, 
above ; 
She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 
And  round  them  throws  her  arms 
of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence;  low-born  care 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  di^siri, 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air. 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


Caroline  E.  S.  Norton. 

BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  of  woman's  tears: 

But  a  comrade  stood  Ijcsidc  him.  while  his  Mfeblooil  ebbed  away, 

And  l)ent  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took  that  comrade's  hand. 

And  he  said,  "  I  nevermore  shall  see  my  own,  my  native  land: 

Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant  friends  oif  mine. 

For  I  was  born  at  Bingen,  —  at  Biugen  on  the  Khine. 

"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and  crowd  aroimd 
To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground. 
That  we  fought  the  luittie  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was  done. 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  tlie  setting  sun; 
And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  grown  old  in  wars.  — 
The  death- wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of  many  scars; 
And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn  decline, — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen,  — fair  Bingen  on  the  Khine. 


*'  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort  her  old  age; 

For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a  cage. 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 

My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce  and  wild; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard. 

I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would.  —  iiut  kejit  my  father's  sword: 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  l)right  light  used  to  shine 

On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm  Bingen  on  the  Khine. 


398 


NORTOX. 


*'  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me.  and  sob  with  ilroopini,'  hfad. 

When  the  troops  I'onie  niarcliinj:  lionu-  aj^ain  witii  i^lad  and  Lcaliant  treatL 

l>ut  to  look  upon  them  proiully.  with  a  <-ahn  and  >lea<ll'a}>l  eye, 

For  iit-r  iirnthcr  was  a  soidirr  too.  and  not  afraid  to  tiie; 

And  if  a  eonn-aile  seek  in-r  love.  1  ask  her  in  my  name 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  siianic, 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  plaee  (my  fathers  sword  and  uiine) 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingeu,  — dear  Hinuen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  There's  another.  —  not  a  sister:  in  the  hai>py  days  f;one  by 

You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriim-nt  tliat  sparkiid  in  her  eye; 

Too  innocent  for  eoijuetry,  —  too  fond  for  idle  sfornin;,',  — 

()  friend!  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heaviest  mourning'. 

Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere  the  moon  lie  risen. 

My  body  will  be  out  of  i)ain,  my  sold  be  out  of  prison). — 

I  dreamed  1  stood  with  /n  r,  and  saw  the  yiilow  sunlight  shine 

On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  liingen,  —  fair  liingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweej)  along,  —  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear. 

The  (Jerman  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and  clear; 

And  down  the  jileasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill. 

The  echoing  chorus  soimded.  through  the  evening  calm  and  still: 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me.  as  we  passed,  with  friendly  talk. 

Down  many  a  jiath  beloved  of  yore,  and  wcll-remendiered  walk! 

And  iier  little  hand  lay  liLdilly,  I'onlidingly,  in  mine. — 

But  well  meet  no  more  at  liingen,  —  loved  JJingen  on  the  Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  —  liis  grasp  was  rliildish  weak,— 

His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  —  he  siglu'd,  ami  ceased  to  speak; 

His  eonnade  bent  to  lilt  him,  btit  the  sjiark  of  life  had  (led,  — 

The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead; 

And  the  soft  moon  rose  uj)  slowly,  ami  eahnly  she  lo(»ked  down 

(hi  the  red  saiul  of  the  battle-liclil,  with  bloody  corses  strown; 

Yet  lalmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed  to  shine, 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


H'F   HAVE   fiFES   FlilESDS   TOCETIIEH. 


Wk  ha'-e  been  frienils  together 

In  si.nsbine  and  in  shade. 
Since     first     beneath    the    chestnut- 
trees. 

In  infaiii-y  we  ]>Iayed. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow; 
We  liave  been  friends  together, 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together; 

We  havi-  laughed  at  little  jests; 
F'or  the  fount  (»f  hope  was  gushing 

Wanu  and  juyuua  iu  uur  bruuttU, 


Hut  laughter  now  hath  tied  thy  lip, 
,\nd  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 

We  have  been  gay  together, 
Sliall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  tog<-lher; 

We  have  wei)t  with  biller  tears 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves   where 
sliimiiered 

The  b(ii>es  «if  early  years. 
The  voiie-  which  are  sibnt  there 

Wonl<l  bid  III leiirlby  brow  ; 

We  have  been  sad  Itip'lber. 

UL,  w  hat  ithall  part  Uii  now  '.' 


aRElLL\. 


399 


John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 


PEACE  AND  PAIN. 

The  day  and  night  are  symbols  of 
creation, 
And  each  lias  part  in  all  that  God 
has  made: 
There  is  no  ill  without  its  compen- 
sation, 
And  life  and  death  are  only  light 
and  shade. 
There  never  beat  a  heart  so  base  and 
sordid 
But  felt  at  times  a  sympathetic 
glow;  [ed, 

There  never  lived  a  virtue  inireward- 
Nor  died  a  vice  without  its  meed  of 
woe. 

In  this  brief  life  despair  should  never 
reach  us; 
The   sea   looks    wide  because    the 
shores  are  flim: 
The  star  that  led  the  Mairi  still   can 
teach  us 
The  way  to  go  if  we  but  look  to  Uim.  I 


And  as  we  wade,  the  darkness  clos> 
ing  o'er  us, 
The  hungry  waters  surging  to  the 
chin. 
Our  deeds   will   rise    like   stepping- 
stones  before  us  — 
The  good  and  bad  —  for  we  may 
use  the  sin. 

A  sin  of  youth,  atoned  for  and  for- 
given. 
Takes  on  a  virtue,  if  we  choose  to 
find: 
When  clouds  across  our  onward  path 
are  driven, 
We  still  may  steer  by  its  pale  light 
behind. 
A  sin  forgotten  is  in  part  to  pay  for, 
A  sin   remembered    is   a  constant 
gain: 
Sorrow,  next  joy,  is  what  we  ought 
to  jjray  for. 
As  next  to  peace  we  profit  most 
from  pain. 


THE   HIDE   OF  COLLINS   GRAVES. 


No  song  of  a  soldier  ri<ling  down 
To  the  raging  fight  from  Winchester 

town ; 
No  song  of  a  time  that  shook  the 

earth 
With  the  nation's  throe  at  a  nation's 

birth: 
But  the  song  of  a  brave  man,  free 

from  fear 
As  Sheridan's  self  or  Paul  Revere; 
WTio  risked  what  they  risked,  free 

from  strife, 
And  its  promise  of  glorious  pay  —  his 

hfe! 

The   peaceful  valley  has  waked  and 

stirred, 
And  the  answering  echoes  of  life  are 

heard : 
The  dew  still  clings  to  the  trees  and 

grass, 
;\.nd  the  early  toilers  smiling  pass, 


As  they  glance  aside  at  the  white- 
walled  homes. 

Or  up  tlie  valley  where  merrily  conies 

The  brook  that  sparkles  in  diamond 
rills 

As  the  sun  comes  over  the  Ilanip- 
shire  hills. 

What  was  it  that  passed  like  an  omi- 
nous breath  — 

Like  a  shiver  of  fear  or  a  touch  ot 
death  ? 

What  was  it  ?  The  valley  is  peace 
ful  still. 

And  the  leaves  are  afire  on  top  of  tlie 
hill. 

It  was  not  a  sound  —  nor  a  thing  of 
sense  — 

Ihit  a  pain,  like  the  pang  of  the 
short  siisjMMise  |see 

Tiiat  tiirills  tlie  lieing  of   those  who 

At  their  feet  tiie  gulf  of  Eternity! 


400 


O'ltEILLY. 


The  air  of  the  valley  has  fell  the  chill : 

The  workers  pause  at  the  door  of  the 
mill; 

The  housewife,  keen  to  the  shiver- 
ing air 

Arrests  her  toot  on  the  cottage  stair, 

Instinctive  taught  by  the  mother- 
love. 

And  thinks  of  the  sleeping  ones 
above. 

Why  start  the  listeners  ?  ^^^ly  does 
tiic  course 

Of  the  mill-stream  widen  ?  Is  it  a 
horse  — 

Ilark  to  the  sound  of  his  hoofs,  they 
say  — 

That  gallops  so  wildly  Williamsburg 
way ! 

God!  what  was  that,  like  a  human 
shriek 

From  the  winding  valley  ?  Will  no- 
body speak  ? 

Will  nobody  answer  those  women 
who  cry 

As  the  awful  warnings  thunder  by  ? 

Whence  come  they?  Listeul  And 
now  they  hear 

The  sound  of  tlic  galloping  horse- 
hoofs  near; 

They  waldi  the  trend  of  the  vale, 
and  sec  lingly, 

The  rider  who  thunders  so  nienac- 

With  waving  amis  and  warning 
scream 

To  th(!  hoiin'-lillcd  l)anks  of  the  val- 
Iry  stream.  |stiiM'l 

lit  draws  no  rein,  l)Ut  he  shakes  the 

With  a  shout  and  the  ring  of  the  gal- 
loping feet ; 

And  this  I  lie  r-ry  he  flings  to  the 
wind: 

"To  the  hills  for  your  lives!  The 
Hood  is  behind!  " 

lie  cri»«  and  is  gone:  but  thoy  kimw 

the  worst  — 
The  breast  of  the  Williamsburg  dam 

has  burst! 
The  biisinthat  nourished  their  happy 

llDllles 

Is  changeij  to  a  demon.  It  comes! 
it  come**! 


A    monster  in   aspect,   with  shaggj 

front. 
Of  sliai tried  dwellings,  to  take  the 

brunt 
Of  the  homes  tlu-y  shatter — white- 

maned  and  hoarse. 
The  merciless  Terror  (ills  the  courei 
Of   the   narrow   valley,  and   rushing 

raves. 
With  Death  on  the  first  of  its  hissing 

waves,  [miil 

Till  cottage  and  street  and  crowded 
Are  crunililed  aiul  crushed. 

Hut  onward  still. 
In  front  of  the  roaring  flood  is  heanl 
The  galloping  horse  and  the  warning 

word. 
Thank  God !  the  brave  man's  life  is 

spared  I 
From  Williamsburg  town   he  nobly 

dared 
To  race  with  the  flood  and  take  the 

road 
In    front    of    the   terrible    swath   it 

mowed. 
For  mill's  it    ihuuilcred  and  crashed 

liehiiid, 
Hut  lie  looked  ahead  with  a  steadfast 

mind ; 
"They  luusi  be  warned!"  was  all  he 

saiil. 
As  iiway  on  his  terrible  ride  he  sjmmI. 

When  heroes  are  called  for,  bring  tin- 

ciT>wn 
To  this  Yankee  rider:  send  him  <lown 
On  the  stream  of  lime  with  the  Gur- 

lius  old ; 
His  deed   as  the    Koman's  wa.s  brave 

and  l<old. 
Anil   the  tale  c;ui  as  ni)bl'>   a   thrill 

awake. 
For  be  olTejed  his  life  for  the  jmojiIc's 

sake. 


TiiiisK  we  love  truly  never  die, 
Tboiigb  year  by  year  the  sad  memo- 
rial wreath, 
A  ring  and   flowers,  tvix'sof  life  and 
dealb. 
Are  laid  iiiMin  tliiir  graves. 


O'REILLY. 


401 


For  death  the  pure  life  saves, 

Poor  banished  Hagar! — prayed  awel' 

A.nd  Hfe   all  pure  is  love;  and  love 

raiglit  burst 

can  reach 

From    out    the    sand    to  save  hei 

Prom  heaven   to  earth,  and  nobler 

parching  child. 

lessons  teach 

And  loving  eyes  that  cannot  see  the 

Than  those  by  mortals  read. 

mind 

Will  watch  the  expected  movement 

Well  blessed  is  he  who  has  a  dear 

of  the  lip: 

one  dead ; 

Ah!  can   ye   let   its  cutting  silence 

A  friend  he  has  wliose  face  will  never 

wind 

change  — 

Aroimd  that  heart,  and  scathe  it 

A  dear  companion  that  will  not  grow 

like  a  whip  ? 

strange ; 

The  anchor  of  a  love  is  death. 

Unspoken  words,  like  treasiu-es  in  the 

mine, 

The  blessed   sweetness  of  a  loving 

Are  valueless  until  we  give  them 

breath 

birth: 

Will  reach  our  cheek  all  fresh  through 

Like  unfound  gold  their  hidden  beau- 

weary years, 

ties  shine, 

For  her  who  died    long  since,  ah! 

Which  God  has  made  to  bless  and 

waste  not  tears, 

gild  the  earth. 

She's  thine  unto  the  end. 

How  sad  'twould  be  to  see  a  master's 

hand 

Thank  God  for  one  dead  friend, 

Strike  glorious  notes  upon  a  voice- 

With face  still  radiant  with  the  light 

less  lute! 

of  truth. 

But  oh!   what   pain  when,  at  God's 

Vhosti   love   conies   laden   with   tlie 

own  (■(iiiniiimd. 

scent  of  yoiii  h, 

A    heartstriiii;    tlirills   with    kind- 

Through twenty  years  of  death ! 

ness,  but  is  mute ! 

Then   hide  it  not,  the  music  of  the 

sold. 

UNSPOKEN    WOllDS. 

Dear     sympathy,    expressed   with 

kindly  voice, 

"he  kindly  words  that  rise  within 

But  let  it  like  a  siiining  river  roll 

the  heart, 

To  deserts  dry,  — to   hearts    that 

And  thrill  it  with  their  sympathetic 

would  rejoice. 

tone 

Oh!    let  the    symphony    of    kindly 

But  die  ere  spoken,  fail  to  play  their 

words 

part. 

Sound  for  the  poor,  the  friendless, 

And  claim  a  merit  that  is  not  their 

and  the  weak; 

own. 

And    He   will    bless   you, — He  who 

The  kin:'!y  word  unspoken  is  a  sin, 

struck  these  chords 

A  sin  tliat  wraps  itself  in  purest 

Will  strike  another  when  m  tun, 

guise. 

you  seek. 

And  tells  the  heart  that,  doubting. 

looks  within, 

That  not  in  speech,  but  thought. 

the  virtue  lies. 

HIDDEN  SINS. 

But  'tis  not   f.o:  another  heart  may 

Fob  ever\'  sin  that  comes  before  the 

thirst 

liglit. 

For  that   kind  word,  as   Ilagar   in 

And  leaves  an  outward  blemish  on 

the  wild  — 

the  sold, 

402 


Obijtuiti> 


How    many,    darker,    cowor  out  of 

That  die;  and    dig  a  never-ending 

sight. 

iMVf. 

Ainl  burrow,  blind  and  silent,  like 

Oui  hidden  ^ins  ^naw    tUruligh  ih« 

tlif  n\o\". 

sonl,  an.!  nii'et 

A.r  J  like  th<'  mole,  too,  will'  its  lnu«y 

And  uail  upon  lach  p^j^ii  \n  iv 

feet 

irrave. 

Frances  Sargent  Osgood. 


LARonAnR  rsT  nn.ui/:. 

.^Al'SK   not  to  dream  of   tlif  futun' 

before  us; 
f'ause    not    to   weep   the    wild    cart-s 

that  conn-  o'er  us; 
Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  masical 

chorus, 
Unintennittinp,      goes      up     into 

heaven  I 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  tlow- 

infi: 
Never  the  little  seed    stops    in    its 

growing; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose  heart 

keeps  K'owiuK, 
Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is 

riven. 

*' Lal)or  isworshipl" — Ihe  robin  is 

sin;iinK; 
'•  Labor  is  worship!  "  —  iIh'  wild  !)<•<• 

is  riiigiui;; 
Li.stenI    that   flo<iuriil  whispi-r,   up- 

hpringiuK, 
Speaks  to  (by  .soul   from  nui    N'.i- 

ture's  j^n-al  In-art. 
Frouj  the  dark  cloml  (lows  tin-  liff- 

giviug  .showi-r; 
From  tin'  miigli  sod  blows  thesoft- 

lircalliiii';  llowcr; 
From  the  siuall  insect,  the  ricli  cond 

Itower; 
Only   man  shrinks,    in    the    plan, 

from  his  ])arl. 

Lalior  is  life!— 'Tis   the  still   water 

faileth; 
MlenenH  ever  deHpairelh,  bewaileth: 
Keep  I  lie  watch  woinnl,  for  the  dark 

ru.Hf  assallelh! 
Flowers  drooji  ami  die  in  the  still- 

ne.sH  of  noon. 


Labor   is   glorj'!  —  the    (lying    cloud 

lightens; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and 

brightens; 
Idle    hearts    only    the    dark    future 

frightens; 
I'lay  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou 

keep  them  in  tune! 

Labor  is  re^t, —  from  the  sorrows  that 

greet  ns; 
l{e.st  from   all   l>etty  vexations  (bat 

nn-et  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever 

entreat  us. 
Rest  from  world-sirens  that  bin' us 

to  ill. 
Work, — and     pure     sbunbers    shall 

wait  on  thy  pillow; 
Work,  —  tlioM  shall    ride  ovt'r  (  an's 

coniini,'  liillow : 
Lie  not    down   wt-aried  'iieath  Woe's 

wi'epinu-williiw! 
Work  with  a  stout   heart  and  reso- 
lute will! 

Labor    is  lnallh,  —  In!  the  husband- 
man reaping'. 
How  throMub  hi-  \ein    goes  the  lif<>- 

••urreiit  leapin,'! 
How  his  strong  arm  in  his  stalwart 

pride  sweepinn. 
True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sicklci 

gindi's. 
Labor    is    wealth, — in    the   sea   the 

pearl  groweth : 
Kich  the  ijUetn's  robe  fmm  tlie  frail 

e«ieo(in  llowetb ; 
From  the  (ine  a<<)rn  the  strong  forest 

blowetb: 
Temple    and     statue     the    marblo 

block  biiles. 


OSGOOD. 


403 


Droop   not,   though  shame,  sin,  and 
anguish  arc  round  thoo! 

Bravely  fling  off  tlu;  cold  cliain  that 
hath  bound  tlice ! 

Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  be- 
yond thee! 
Rest  not  eontent  in  thy  darkness, 
— a  clod  I 


Work  —  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so 

slowly ; 
Cherish  some   flower,  be   it  ever  so 

lowly : 
Labor  !  —  all     labor     is     noble    and 

holy : 
Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer 

to  thy  God. 


Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


BEFORE   THE   I'lUME. 

You  think  you  love  me,  Marguerite, 
liecause  you  (ind  Love's  fancy  sweet; 
So,  zealously,  you  seek  a  sign 
To  prove  your  heart  is  wholly  mine.- 

Ah.  were  it  so!    But  listen,  dear! 
Bethink  you  how,  this  very  year, 
AVi.h  I'ond  impatience  you  were  fain 
To  .vatch  the  earth  grow  green  again; 

When  April's  violets,  here  and  there, 

Siu'prised  the  unexpeetant  air. 

You  searclied  them  out,  and  brought 

me  some, 
To  show,  you  said,  that  spring  was 

come. 

But,  sweetheart,  when  the  lavish  May 
Rained  flowers  and  fragrance  round 

your  way. 
You  had    no  thought   her  bloom  to 

bring,  .  _ 

'i'o  prove  the  presence  of  the  spring  I 

Believe  nie.  when  Love's  April-time 
Shall  rijieii  lo  its  jn'i-fcct  i)rime, 
You  will  not  need  a  sign  to  know 
What  every  glance  and  breath  will 
show ! 


DIUVINO   HOME    THE   COWS. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  gras- 
He  turned  them  ijito  the  river  lam- 
One  after  anotlierhc  let  tliem  pass. 
Then    fastened    the   meadow  -  bar^ 
again. 


Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
lie  patiently  followed  their  sober 
pace ; 
The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 
And  something  shadowed  the  sun- 
ny face. 

Only  a  boy!  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead. 

Under  the  feet  "of  the   trampling 
foe. 

But  after  the  evening  woi-k  was  done. 
And   the  frogs   were   loud   in  the 
meadow-swamp. 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun. 
And  stealthily  followed   the  foot- 
path damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the 
wheat. 
^Vith   resolute  heart  and  purpose 
gi'ira. 
Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hur- 
rying tVet.  |him. 
And  the  i)lind  bat's  fitting  startled 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been 
white. 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple- 
bloom  ; 
And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back 
at  night. 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had   come   to  the    lonely 
farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  twu 
had  lain; 


404 


CymJALGHNESSr. 


And  the  old  man's  tremulous,   pal- 
sied ami 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

'I'he  smnnier  day  urew  cool  and  late. 

lie  went  for  tJie   cows  when   the 

w  ork  was  done ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the 

^'ate, 

lie  saw  thera  coming  one  by  one,  — 

/Jrlndle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 
Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening 
wind ; 
Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the 
grass,  —  hind  ? 

But  who  was  it  following  close  be- 
Loosely  swimg  In  the  Idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue; 


And  worn  an<l  pale,  from  the  crisp 
ing  iiair. 
Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father 
knew. 

For  southern  prisons  will  sometimes 
yawn. 
And    yield    their  dead    unto    life 
again; 
And  tlie  day  lliat  comes  with  a  cloudy 
daw  II 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meet- 
ing eyes; 
For  tiie  heart  must  speak  when  the 
lips  are  dumb; 
And  under  the  silent  «'vening  skies 
Togetlier  they  followed  the  cattle 
home. 


ARTHUR    O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

SONO  OF  A   FELLOW-WORKER. 

I  Fin'ND  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed  I  toiled  alone: 

My  toil  was  fashioning  tbougiit  and  sound,  and  bis  was  hewing  stone; 

1  worked  in  the  i)alaee  of  my  brain,  be  in  tlie  coniinon  street; 

And  il  seemeil  his  toil  was  great  and  hard,  while  mine  was  great  and  sweet 

I  said,  "  ()  fellow-worker,  yea,  for  I  am  a  worker  too. 
i'lie  heart  nigh  fails  me  many  a  day.  but  bow  is  it  with  you? 
l"or  while  I  toil,  great  tears  of  joy  will  sometimes  fill  my  eyes, 
And  when  I  fonn  my  p)erfect  work,  it  lives  and  never  dies. 

•  I  carve  the  marble  of  pint-  tboiigbt  until  the  tboiigbt  takes  form, 
Iiitil  il  gleams  before  my  soul  ami  niaki-s  the  worbi  grow  warm; 
liitil  there  comes  the  glorious  voiee  and  words  that  seem  divine. 
And  the  music  reaches  all  men's  hearts  and  draws  them  into  nune. 

"  And  yet  for  days  il  seems  my  heart  shall  blossom  never  more. 

And  the  liurdeii  of  my  loneliness  lies  on  me  very  son^: 

'llierefore.  ()  hewer  of  the  stones  thai  pave  base  human  ways. 

How  canst  thou  bear  the  years  till  death.  ma<le  ()f  such  thankless  days  P" 

Then  he  rei)lied:  "  Ere  simrise.  when  the  i)ale  lii)s  <jf  the  day 
>.  iit  forth  an  earnest  thrill  of  breath  at  wurmtli  of  the  first  ray, 
A  u'nai  tlioMi,'bl  ruse  witbiii  nn-.  b<>w.  while  men  asleep  bad  lain, 
I  be  ibousand  labors  of  the  world  had  grown  up  onei-  again. 

"The  sim  grow  on  the  worM,  ami  on  my  .soul  the  thought  grew  too, — 
A  great  aiipjilling  siui,  l<>  light  my  soul  the  long  day  through. 
I  felt  tin-  w. .lid's  wbol.'  burden  for  a  moment,  tli-n  b.giin 
With  man's  gigantic  strength  to  ilo  tlie  lal>or  of  one  man. 


PALFREY.  405 

•  I  went  forth  hastily,  and  lo!  I  met  a  hundred  men, 
'llie  worker  with  the  chisel  and  the  worker  with  llie  pen,  — 
Tlie  restless  toilers  after  good,  who  sow  and  never  reap. 
And  one  who  maketh  music  for  their  souls  that  may  not  sleep. 

"  Each  passed  me  with  a  dauntless  look,  and  my  undaimted  eyes 
Were  almost  softened  as  they  jiassed  with  tears  that  strove  to  rise 
At  sight  of  all  those  labors,  and  because  that  every  one, 
Ay,  the  greatest,  would  be  greater  if  my  little  were  undone. 

"  They  passed  me,  having  faith  in  me,  and  in  our  several  ways, 
Together  we  began  to-day  as  on  the  other  days  : 
I  felt  their  mighty  hands  at  work,  and,  as  the  days  wore  through, 
Perhaps  they  felt  that  even  I  was  helping  somewhat  too. 

"  Perhaps  they  felt,  as  with  those  hands  they  lifted  mightily 
The  burden  once  more  laid  upon  the  world  so  heavily. 
That  while  they  nobly  held  it  as  each  man  can  do  an(l  bear. 
It  did  not  wholly  rail  my  side  as  though  no  men  were  there. 

"And  so  we  toil  together  many  a  day  from  morn  till  night, 

I  in  the  lower  depths  of  life,  they  on  the  lovely  height; 

For  though  the  common  stones  are  mine,  and  *hey  have  lofty  cares, 

Their  work  begins  where  this  leaves  off,  and  mine  is  part  of  theirs. 

"  And  'tis  not  wholly  mine  or  theirs,  I  think  of  through  the  day, 
But  the  great,  eternal  thing  we  make  together,  I  and  they; 
Far  in  the  sunset  I  behold  a  city  that  man  owns. 
Made  fair  with  all  their  nobler  toil,  built  of  my  common  stones. 

"  Then  noon  ward,  as  the  task  grows  light  with  all  the  labor  done. 
The  single  thought  of  all  the  day  becomes  a  joyous  one; 
Fur,  rising  in  my  heart  at  last  where  it  has  lain  so  lojig. 
It  thrills  up  seeking  for  a  voice,  and  grows  almost  a  song. 

••  I>ut  when  the  evening  comes,  indeed,  the  wonls  have  taken  wing, 
The  Lhought  sings  in  me  still,  but  I  am  all  too  tired  to  sing: 
Therefore,  O  you  my  friend,  who  serve  the  world  with  minstrelsy, 
Among  our  fellow-workers'  sougs  make  that  one  song  for  me. 


Rebecca  S.  Palfrey. 

WHITE   UNDERNEATH. 


Into  a  city  street. 

Narrow  and  noisome,  chance  had  led 

my  feet; 
Poisonous  to  every    sense;  and  the 

sun's  rays 
Loveil  not  the  unclean  place. 


It  seemed  that  no  pure  thing 

Its  whiteness  here  woiUd  ever  dare  to 

bring; 
Vet  even  into  this  dark    jtlace  and 

low, 
God  had  sent  down  his  snow. 


40b 


P AUK  Kit. 


Here, too,  a  little  rhild, 
Stooil    by    the  tlrift,   now   hlaiki'iied 
iiiid  ill-tiled;  ll'liiy. 

And  witii  liis  rosy  hands,  in  oanicst 
Scraped  the  dark  crust  away. 

Checking  my  hurried  pace, 
To  watch  the  busy  hands  and  earnest 
face,  I'iglit, 

I  heard  liim  iau.!,'h  aloud  in  pure  de- 
That  underneath,  't  was  while. 

Then,  through  a  broken  pane, 

A  woman's  voice  sununoned  him  in 

ai^ain. 
With  softened  mother-tones,  that  half 

excused 
The  unclean  words  she  used. 


And  as  I  lingered  near, 

iiis  iiaby  accents  fell  upon  my  ear: 

•'  .See,  I  can  make  the  snow  again  foi 

All  clean  and  wiiite  and  new!" 

Ah!  surely  God  knows  best. 

Our  sight  is  short:  faith  trusts  to  Ilim 
the  rest. 

Sometimes,  we  know,  lie  gives  to  hu- 
man hands 

To  work  out  His  commands. 

Porha]>s  lie  holds  apart, 

15y  baity  lingers  in  that  mother's  heart. 

One    fair,  clean    spot   that   yet    may 

spreail  ami  grow. 
Till  all  be  whitens  snow. 


Theodore  Parker. 


Tin:  WAY,  Tin:  t/wt/i  axd  the 
1. 1  Ft:. 

O  Tlioi;,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons 
of  men, 
Who  nnie  appeared    in   humblest 
nuise  below. 
Sin  to  rebuke,  to  break  the  captive's 
<-bain. 
And  call  Thy  brethren  forth  from 
want  anil  woe,  — 
We  look  to  thee!  Thy  truth  is  still  llie 
Li-ht 
Wliieb  guides  the  nations,  groping 
on  their  way. 
Stundiliug   and   falling  in  disastrous 
night. 
Yet     hoping    ever    for    the   Jierfert 
day. 
Yes;  'I'lion  art  still  tlie  Life.  Thou  art 
the  way 
The  boliesl   known:    Liiiht.   Life, 
the  Way  of  heaven  ! 
And    tliey     who    ili-jiresl    boi)e   and 
deepest  pray 
Toil    liy    the    Light,    Life,    Way, 
which  Thou  liast  given. 


Tin:   lllGIIKIi   GOOD. 

Katiii-.i!,  I  will  not  ask  for  wealth  or 
fame, 

Tboui,'h    once    they    would     have 
joyed  my  carnal  sense  : 

I  shiiililrr  mil  tu  lieara  hated  name. 

WanliMu'all  wealth,  myself  my  sole 
defence. 
But  give  me.    Lord,  eyes   to   beholil 
the  truth: 

.•\    seeing   sense    that     knows    the 
eternal  right : 

A  heart   with  jiity  filled,  ami  gen- 
tlest nilb ; 

\  maidy  faith  that  makes  all  dark- 
ness li',dit.  I  kind: 
(Jive  me  the  power  to  labor  for  man- 

.Make    me   the  month  of    such  as 
cannot  speak : 

Kyes  let  me  be  to  gro))ing  men,  and 

blind;  (weak 

A  conseieiiee  to  the  base;  and  to  the 

Let   me  be  hands  and  feet;  and  t'O 
the  foolisli,  mind : 

.\nil    lead    still  further  on  such  as 
Thy  kingdom  seek. 


PARNELL. 


407 


Thomas  Farnell. 


HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace  of  mind ! 
Sv.  eet  delight  of  human  kind ! 
Ileavenly-born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  'he  favorites  of  the  sky 
With  moie  of  happiness  below, 
'I'han  victors  in  a  triumph  know! 
AV  hither.  O  whither  art  Ihou  fled. 
To  lay  thy  meek,  contented  lioad  ? 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  jtlease 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease  ? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  ]>om])  and  state,  to  meet  thee  tliere. 
Increasing  avarice  woidtl  Hnd 
'I'liy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming 

sea 
To  gain  thy  love;  and  then  perceives 
'I'hou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves, 
("he  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails, 
'I'reads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the 

vales, 
ISees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 
Amusing  thought;  but  learns  to  know 
That  Solitude's  tiie  nurse  of  woe. 
No  real  iiappiness  is  found 
In  trailing  pin'i)le  o'er  the  ground: 
Or  in  a  soul  exalted  hii^h, 
'I'o  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 
Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  j.ature  in  its  forms  below; 
The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 
And   doubt.':   at   last   for   knowledge 
rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here. 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest. 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

"I'was  thus,  as  under  shade  1  stood, 
I  sung  my  w  ishes  to  the  wood. 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  per- 
ceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved ; 


It  seemed  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confessed  the  presence  of  her  grace. 
When  thus  she  spoke  —  "Go  i-ule  thy 

will. 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still. 
Know  God  —  and  bring  thy  heart  tc 

know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow: 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  (;iown  the  rest." 

Oh!  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
111  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 
Miglit  I  tlius  my  soul  employ 
Willi  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy: 
Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were, 
Iji     heavenly     vision,     praise,     and 

prayer ; 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none. 
Pleased  and  blessed  with  (iod  alone: 
Then  while    the    gardens    take    my 

sight, 
With  all  the  colors  of  delight; 
While  silver  waters  glide  along. 
To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song ; 
I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string. 
And  thee,  great  Source  of    Nature, 

sing. 
The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way. 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day: 
The  moon  that  shines  with  borrowed 

light; 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumbered  waves; 
The    wood    that    spreads    its  shady 

leaves ; 
The  field    whose  ears    conceal    the 

grain. 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain; 
All  of  these,  and  all  1  see. 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me: 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
Put  want  and  ask  I  he  tongue  of  man. 
Go  search  anions  >oiir  idle  dreams. 
Your  busy  or  your  sain  extremes; 
-viid  find  a  life  of  e<|ual  bliss. 
Or  own  the  next  bejiuii  in  this. 


40S  FAR80N8. 


Thomas  William  Parsons. 

HUDSON  HIV  Eli. 

RrvKRS  tliat  roll  most  musical  in  song 
Are  often  lovfly  to  the  mind  alone: 

The  wamli'ivr  nuLscs,  as  he  niovos  along 
Tlu'ir  barren  banks,  ou  glories  not  their  own. 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyish  dreams, 
He  leaves  his  own,  far  countries  to  siuToy, 

Oft  nm>t  lie  think,  in  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

If  chance  he  mark  the  dwindled  Arno  iwur 
A  tide  more  meagre  than  his  native  Charles; 

Or  views  the  Khoiie  when  summer's  heat  is  o'er, 
[Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries:' 

Or  when  hi>  sees  tlie  slimy  Tiber  fling 
His  sidli'Ti  trihiUe  at  the  feet  fif  Home. 

Oft  to  his  thought  nnist  partial  memory  bring 
More  noble  waves,  without  renown,  at  home. 

Now  let  him  climb  the  Catskill,  to  l)ehold 
The  lordly  Hudson,  mardiiii^  lo  the  main, 

And  say  what  bard,  in  any  land  of  old. 
Had  such  a  river  to  inspire  his  strain. 

Along  the  Hldne  gray  battlements  ami  towers 
Deejare  u  iial  robbeix  on<'e  the  reahii  possessed 

But  here  !Iea\cirs  handiwork  surpasseth  f)urs, 
An<l  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 

No  storied  castle  overawes  Ihes"  heights; 

Nor  anticiue  arches  cheek  the  ctirrent's  play; 
Nor  mouldering  architrave  the  ndn<l  invites 

To  flream  of  deities  long  passed  away. 

No  Gothic  buttress,  or  decaying  shaft 

Of  marble,  yellowed  by  a  thousand  years. 

Lifts  a  great  landmark  to  the  Utile  craft.  — 
A  summer  cloud:  that  comes  and  dis.ippoars. 

But  cliflfs.  unaltered  from  their  prima!  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge,  rise 

And  huld  llieir  savins  tn  the  uii]ter  siorm. 
While  far  below,  the  skifT  .securely  plle«. 

Farms,  rich  not  more  in  meadows  than  in  men 
Of  .Saxon  mould,  and  strong  for  evepi'  loll. 

Sjtread  o'lT  the  jjlain,  or  scatter  through  the  gloE 
lJ<eoilan  plenty  on  a  .Spartan  soil. 


PARSONS.  409 


Then,  where  the  reign  of  cultivation  ends, 
Again  the  clianning  wilderness  begins: 

From  steep  to  steep  one  solemn  wood  extends, 
Till  some  new  hamlet's  rise,  the  boscage  thins. 

And  these  deep  gi-oves  forever  have  remained 

Touched  by  no  axe,  —  by  no  proud  owner  nursed; 

As  now  they  stand  they  stood  when  Pharaoh  reigned, 
Lineal  descendants  of  creation's  first. 


No  tales,  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 

In  ancient  scrolls;  no  deeds  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree. 
And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  fame. 

But  neither  Iutc  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invaders  from  bai'liarian  climes; 

No  horrors  feignml  of  giant  or  of  god 
Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields  laid  waste. 
The  ravished  barvest  and  the  blasted  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruined  ami  llu^  sb.rine  defaced, 
Tracked  the  foul  jjassage  of  the  feudal  brute. 

"Yet,  O  Antiquity!"  the  stranger  sighs; 

"  Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pall  upon  the  view; 
The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 

Where  all  is  fair  indeed,  —  but  all  L  new.'* 

False  thought!  is  age  to  crumbling  walls  confined  ? 

To  Orecian  frai^nieiits  and  Egj-ptian  bones  ? 
Hath  Tinie  no  nioiiuiuents  to  raise  the  mind. 

More  than  oM  fortresses  and  sculptured  stones? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 

That  wears  luichanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  dawning  from  its  ^laker's  hand, 
Gladdened  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 

Nor  did  Eupliratc;  with  an  earlier  birth 

(iliile  past  <,Meeii  I'Meu  towards  the  uidcnown  soutb 
Than  Hudson  broke  upon  the  infant  earth. 

And  kissed  the  ocean  with  his  nameless  raouth. 

T^in-I)orn  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile! 

Thebes  and  the  pyramids  to  thee  are  young; 
Oh!  had  thy  waters  burst  from  Britain's  isle. 

Till  now  perchance  they  had  not  flowed  imsung. 


410 


FATMOHE. 


Tin:   G  ROOMS  MAS'    TO  HIS 
MIS  TllKSS. 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 
Makes  anotli<T,  soon  or  late; 

Never  yet  was  any  niarriane 
Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 

But  th','  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 

UlessinKs  then  upon  tlie  morning 
When  my  friend  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solenui  rites"  permission, 
To  himself  his  mistress  took. 

And  the  Destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

While  the  priest  fuHilled  his  ollice, 
Si  ill  the  groiuid  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride; 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside 
her; 
One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair; 


But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other. 
Save  lier  Arab  eyes  and  hair; 

.Neither  dark  nor  fair,  1  call  her. 
Vet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

WhiU'lier  groomsman — shall  1  own  it? 

Yes.  to  thee,  and  only  thee  — 
Gazed  upon  this  ilark-eyed  maiden 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  tlirei-. 
Thus    he   thought:  "How  blest  the 
bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she!  " 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage. 
Till  my  wisdom  was  peqdexed. 

And  1  wondered,  as  thechurehman 
Dwelt  upon  bis  holy  text. 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  retjuire  the  service  next. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 
Forthetlowers.  the  feast,  the  wine? 

Tliine.  iierchance,  my  dearest  lady  ; 
Or,  who  knows  ?  —  it  maybe  mine: 

What  if  't  were  —  forgive  the  fancy  — 
What    if  't  were    both    mine    and 
thine? 


Coventry  Patmore. 


[Fro7n  The  Iletrothal.] 
SWEET  MKETIXG  OF  DESIRES. 

1  fii!KW  assured  before  I  asked. 

That  she'd  be  mine  without  reser\'e. 
And  in  her  unclaimed  graces  basked 

At    li-isure,   till    the   time    should 
S'-rve,  — 
With  JMsi  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear; 
Thus  loath  to  speak  the  word,  to  kill 

KIiIkt  the  liojie  or  bai>py  fear. 

Till   once,    ihrotigh    lanes   returning 
late. 
Her  laughing  sisters  lagged  behind  : 
And  ere  we  reached  her  father's  gate. 
We  paused   with  one  presentieiit 
ndnd; 
AjuI,  in  the  dim  and  perfumed  mist. 
Their   coming   stayed;  who  blitbi- 
and  free. 


And  very  women,  loved  to  assist 
A  lover's  oi)i>ortunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died,  my  trrMubling 
word ; 

To  faint  ami  fiail  catliednil  chimes 
Si)aki'  linif  in  music,  and  we  beard 

I'he  (balers  rustling  in  tlu'  limes. 
Her  dress,  that  tcuichcd  me  where  I 
sto<jil ; 

'I'he  warmth  of  her  confided  arm; 
Her  bo-.om's  gentle  neighborhood  ; 

ll.riii<asin-c  in  licrpowertocjiarm; 

Her  look,    her   love,    her   form,   her 
touch: 
The  least  seemed  most   by  blissful 
turn, — 
Blissful     but     that     it     jileased     too 
much, 
.\nd  tauglit   the  wayward  soid   to 
yearn. 


PERCIVAL. 


41i 


1 1  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 
Was  traversed  by  the  breath  I  drew ; 

And  oh,  sweet  meeting  of  desires! 
yiie,   answering,    owned   that  slie 
loved  too. 


WOULD    WISDOM  FOR  HERSELF 
BE    WOOED. 

Would  Wisdom  for  lierself  be  wooed, 
And   wake   tlie   foolisli    from   his 
dream, 
Slie  must  be  glad  as  well  as  good. 

And  must  not  only  be,  but  seem. 
Beauty  and  joy  arc  hers  by  right ; 

And,  knowing  this,  1  wonder  less 
That  she's  so  scorned,  when  falsely 
dight 
In  misery  and  nglin(^ss. 
What's   that  which  Heaven  to  man 
endears. 
And  that  which  eyes  no  sooner  see 


Than  the  heart  says,  with  floods  of 
tears, 

"Ah!    that's    the    thing  which  I 
would  Ije  ?  " 
Not  childhood,  full  of  fears  and  frets; 

Not  youth.  Impatient  to  disown 
Those  visions  high,  which  to  forgi-i 

Were  worse    than  never  to  have 
known. 
Not  these ;  but  souls  found  here  aad 
here. 

Oases  in  our  waste  of  sin. 
When  everything  Is  well  and  fair. 

And  God  remits  his  discipline; 
Whose  sweet  subdual  of  the  world 

The  worldling  scai'ce  can  recognize; 
And  ridicule,  against  it  hurled, 

Di-ops  with  a  broken  sting  and  dies. 
jThey  live  by  law,  not  like  the  fool. 

But  like  the  bard  who  freely  sings 
In  strictest  bonds  of  rhyme  and  rule. 

And  finds  in  them  not  bonds  but 


James  Gates  Percival. 


[^From  Prometheus,  Part  II.'] 

APOSTROPHE   TO   THE  SUJ!f. 

Centke  of  light  and  energy !  thy  way 
Is  through  the  unknown  void;  thou 

hast  Ihy  throne, 
Moining,  ami  evening,  and  at  noon 

of  day. 
Far  in  the  blue,  untended  and  alone; 
Ere  the  tir.st-wakened  airs  of  earth 

had  blown, 
OntboudidsL  march,  triumphant  in 

thy  light; 
Then   thou   dulsl   si'ud    thy  glance. 

whiih  sllll  hath  flown 
Wide     throu.di      the     never-ending 

worlds  of  iilghi. 
And  yet  thy  iull  oil)  lnuns  with  flash 

as  keen  and  'Dil'dil. 


Thy  path  is  high  in  Heaven;  —  we 

cannot  ga/.e 
On  the  intense  ol  li.;hi  that  girds  thy 

car; 


There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays. 
Which  bear  thy  pure  divinity  afar. 
To  mingle  with  the  equal   light   of 

star; 
For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art  In  the 

whole 
One  of  the  sparks  of  night,  that  fire 

the  air. 
And  as  around  thy  centre   planets 

roll. 
So  thou  too  hast  thy  path  around  the 

Central  Soul. 


Age  o'er  thee  has  no  power;  — thou 

bring' st  the  same 
Light  to  renew  the  morning,  as  wlicu 

first,  I  flame. 

If  not  eternal,  thou,   with  front  of 
On  the  dark  face  of  earth  in  glon' 

burst . 
And  waiTned  the  seas,  and  in  their 

bosom  nursed 
Tlie  earliest  things  of  life,  the  worm 

and  shell ; 


412 


PEBCIVAL. 


Till  through  the  siuking  ocean,  moun- 
tains iiitTi't'il. 

And  then  canu-  forth  the  land  whore- 
on  we  dwell, 

Reared  like  a  magic  fane  above  the 
watery  swell. 

Thou  lookest  on  the  earth,  and  tlun 

it  smiles; 
Thy  light  is  hid.  and  all  things  droop 

and  mourn; 
Laughs  the  wich'  sea  around  her  bud- 
ding isles, 
When    through    their    lieavcn     thy 

chaniring  ear  is  home; 
Thou   'vlicerst   away  thy   llight,   the 

wojvls  are  shorn 
<  )f  all  thi'ir  waving  locks,  and  storms 

awake; 
All.    that    was  once  so  beautiful,   is 

torn 
I'.v  ilu"  wild  winds  which  plough  the 

lonely  lak<'. 
And    in    their   m:iddening  rush,  the 

cn-sted  mountains  shake. 

The  i-arth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of 

snow; 
I-ife  lingers,  ami  would  die,  but  thy 

return 
Gives  to  their  gladdened   hearts  an 

overflow 
<»f  all  the  juiwer  that  brooded  in  the 

urn 
Of  their    ehille<l    frames,    and    then 

they  prr)Udly  spiiru 
All    itaiuls    that    would   confine,   and 

give  to  air 
Hues,    fragranee,   shapes  of  beauty, 

till  they  burn. 
When  on  a  dewy  moiii  thuu  darti'st 

thi-re 
Hieh  waves  of  golil  (o  wreathi'  with 

fairer  light  "lie  fair. 

Thine  are  the  nioiuitaius,  where  they 

jmrely  lift 
Snows  that  have  never  wa.st«'d,  in  a 

sky 
Whieh    iialh    no  t«Uiiii;    below,    (he 

storm  may  drift 
IlH   darkness,   aiid    the  thunder-gust 

mar  by; 


Aloft  in  thv  eternal  smile  they  lie 
Dazzling  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glanc« 

looks  there, 
j\jid  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty 

die 
Girt  round  them  as  a  rosy  belt,  they 

bear 
Into  the  high  dark  vault  a  brow  that 

still  is  fair. 

The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their 
magic  hues 

Are  pencilled  by  thee;  when  thou 
bendest  low. 

Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand 
imbues 

Their  waving  fold  with  such  a  per- 
fect glow 

Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures 
throw 

Shame  on  the  proudest  art;  the  ten- 
der stain 

Hung  round  the  verge  of  Heaven, 
that  as  a  bow 

(Jirds  the  wide  world,  and  in  their 
blended  chain 

All  tints  to  the  deep  gold,  that  Hashes 
in  thy  train. 

These  are   thy   trophies,   and    thou 

bend'st  thy  arch. 
The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  sevenfold 

twine, 
Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  «»a 

its  mareh; 
And   there   the  glories  of  thy  light 

coudiiiu'. 
And  form  with  perfect  c^^^^•e  a  lifted 

line, 
.Striding   the  earth   and    air;  — man 

looks  and  tells 
llow  peace  and  mercy  in   its  be:iuty 

shine, 
.\nd    how    the    heavenly    niossenger 

impels 
Her  glad  wings  on  the  i>ath.  that  thus 

in  ether  swells. 

'llie   ocean  is   thy   v.issjil ;   tliou   <lost 

sway 
His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they 

Where  thou  in  Heaven  dosl  guitU 
them  on  their  way, 


PERCIVAL. 


413 


Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  How ; 
Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they 

glow, 
They  take  them  wings  and  spring 

aloft  in  air, 
And    change   to   clouds,   and    then, 

dissolving,  throw 
Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and 

rushing,  tear 
The    mountain    and    the    vale,    as 

proudly  on  they  bear. 


THE  COMAL  GROVE. 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove. 
Where  the  piu-ple  mullet  and  gold- 
fish rove, 
Where    the    sea-flower    spreads    its 

leaves  of  blue. 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty 
shine,  [brine. 

Far  down   in  the  green  and  glassy 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  moun- 
tain drift, 
And  the    pearl-shells     spangle    the 

flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocl-cs  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,   where  the  tides  and 

billows  flow; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
for  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent 

there. 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars 

that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air: 
There  witli  its  waving  blade  of  green, 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  si- 
lent water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is 

seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in 

slaughter: 
There  witli  a  light  and  easy  motion. 
The   fan-conil   sweeps    through    the 

clear  deep  sea; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of 

ocean 
Are  bending  like  com  on  the  upland 

lea: 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  fonns. 
Is  sporting  amid   those    bowers    of 
stone. 


And  is  safe  when  the  wrathful  spirit 

of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his 

own ; 
And   when  the  ship   from  his  fury 

flies, 
Where   the  myriad  voices  of  ocean 

roar. 
When  the  wind-god  frowns   in   the 

murky  skies, 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck 

on  shore; 
Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-tish  rove. 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of   the 

coral  grove. 


TO  SENECA   LAKE. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake! 
The   wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy 

sail. 
And   round  his  breast    the    ripples 

break. 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream ! 

The  di])ping  jjaddle  echoes  far. 
And  flashes  in  the  inoonliulit  gleam. 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 
As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their 

foam. 
And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar; 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun.  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wid'\ 
And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  lilue 
Float  roimd  the  distant  mountain", - 
side. 

At   midnight    hour,   as    shines    the 

moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below. 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon. 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  puresl 

snow. 

On  thy  fair  liosom.  silver  lake! 
Oh!  I  could  rvcr  swi-ej)  the  oar. 
Wlii'u  early  binls  at  morning  wake. 
And  evening  tells  us,  toll  is  o'er. 


4U 


PERRY. 


Nora  Perry. 


AFTFR   THE  HALL. 

TiiKY  sal  ami  coiubetl  tlioir  beautiful 
hair, 
Tlu'ir   lung  bright  tresses,  one  by 
one, 
As   they  iau'jrhod   and  talked  in  the 
chaniber  tiierc 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Mly  they  talked  of   waltz    and  qua- 
drille; 
Idly  they  laughed  like  other  girls, 
Wlu»  over  the  tilt",  when  all  is  still. 
Comb  out  their  braids  and  eurls. 

I  lobes  of  satin  :in<l  Brussels  lace. 

Knots  of  llowi-rs  and  rii)bons  too, 
.Siattered  about  in  every  i>lace. 
For  (he  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of 
white, 
The    jirettiest    nightgowns    under 

the  >\\\\, 

JStockingless,   slipperless,    sit    in    i  In- 
night, 
For  the  revel  is  done. 

Sit  and  comb  their  b»'autifiil  hair. 
'I'hose  womlt^rfid  waves  of  brown 
:ind  gold. 
Till   the  lire  is   out  in  the  ohami>er 

there. 
And  till-  little  bare  feet  are  eold. 

Then,  out   of  the  gathering   winter 
ehill, 
All   out    of  the   bitter  St.    Agne„s 
weather. 
While  the  lire  is  out  and  the  house  Is 
still. 
Maud  and  Madge  together,  — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white. 
The  jiretUust  nightgowns  under  the 
sun. 
f  iirtaiiiedaway  from  the  ehilly  night, 
After  tb«  n-vel  is  done!  — 

Moat  along  in  n  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gillern's  tinkling  tune, 


While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering 
stream, 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of    jewels    and    flutter    of 
lae.'s, 
Tropieal  odors  sweeter  than  nuisk; 
Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faii -^ 
And  eyes  of  tropieal  tlusk,  — 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star. 

One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of 

each. 

And  one  voice  sweeter  than  others 

are. 

Breaking  into  silverj'  speech,  — 

Telling,    through     lips    of     bearded 
bloom. 
An  o]<l.  old  stor>'  over  again. 
As  down  the  royal  bannered  room, 
To  thi>  golden  git  tern's  strain. 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk. 
While  an   unseen  sjiirit   walks  be- 
side. 
And.  all  unhi'ard  in  the  lovers'  talk, 
lie  elainieih  one  for  a  i)ride. 

O  Maud  and    Ma<ige,  dream   on  to- 
gether. 
With  never  a  jwng  of  jealous  fear! 
For.  ere  the  iiitter  St.  ,\gnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year, 

Kobe<l  for  the  bridal,  and   rol>ed   for 
the  tondt. 
liraided    brown    hair    and    golden 
tn'ss, 
Then* 'II  be  only  01U?  of  you  left  for 
the  blivtm 
Of  the  beanled  lij)s  to  press,  — 

Oidy  one  for  the  bridal  pearls. 

The  roln-of  sailn  and  llrussels  lace, 
Only  one  to  blii>.b  thr<iut;h  her  eurls 
At  till'  sight  of  a  lover's  faee. 

O  )H*Jiutiful    Madge,   in   your   bridal 
white. 
For  y(iu  the  n'Vei  liiis  jast  begun: 


PERRY. 


415 


liiit  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms 
to-night 
The  revel  of  life  is  done ! 

But,   robed  and  rrowned  with  ymir 
saintly  bliss, 
Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the 
sun, 
O  beautiful  Maud,  you'  11  never  miss 
The  kisses  another  hath  won ! 


AV  AX  HOUR. 

I. 
ANTICIPATION. 

"  I' LI.  take  the  orchard  path,"  she 
said. 
.S^ieaking  lowly,  smiling  slowly: 
The  brook  was  dried  within  its  bed, 
The  hot  sun  flung  a  flame  of  red 
Low  in  the  west  as  forth  slie  sped. 

Across  the   dried    brook-course  she 
went. 
Singing  lowly,  smiling  slowly ; 
She  scarcely  felt  the  sun  that  spent 
Its  fiery  force  in  swift  descent, 
She  never  saw  the  wheat  was  bent, 

The  grasses  parched,  the  blossoms 
dried ; 
Singing  lowly,  smiling  slowly, 
IIpp  eyes  amidst  the  drouth  espied 
A  siuniner  ploasance  far  and  wide. 
With  roses  and  sweet  violets  pied. 

II. 

DISAPl'OI.NTME.VT. 

Rut  homeward  coming  all  the  way, 

Sigliing  lowly,  i)acing  slowly. 
She  knew  the  bent  wlieat  withering 

lay. 
She  saw  the  blossoms'  dry  decay, 
bhe  missed  the  little  brooklet's  play. 

A  breeze  had  sprung  from  out  the 

south, 
But,  sighing  lowly,  i)acing  slowly. 
She  only  felt  the  burning  drouth; 
ller  eyes  were  hot  and  parched  her 

mouth. 
Yet   sweet  the  wind  blew  from  tin- 

south. 


And  when  the  wind  brought  welcome 
rain. 
Still  sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly. 
She  never  saw  the  lifting  grain. 
But  only  —  a  lone  orchard  lane, 
^Vhere  she  had  waited  all  in  vain. 


TYING  HER  BOXNET  UNDER  HER 
CHIN. 

Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in ; 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the 

hill. 
Where  the  wind  comes  blowing  merry 

and  chill ; 
And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome 

race. 
All  over  her   happy    peach-colored 

face. 
Till,  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied 

them  in. 
Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew   a  color,  bright  as  the 

Idoom 
Of    the    pinkest    fuchsia's     tossing 

pliune. 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest 

girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  rom])ingcurl, 
Or,  tying  her  boimot  under  ht'r  chin, 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill ; 

Madder,  merrier,  chillier  still 

The  western  wind  blew  down,  and 

])layed 
The   wildest    tricks   with   the   little 

maid. 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  uniler  her  chin. 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  \\illiin. 

O  western  wiml,  do  you  think  it  was 

fair. 
I'o    play  stub  tricks  with  her  floating 

hair  ';• 


416 


PHELPFl. 


To  tjl;i(lly,  gU'cfnlly  do  your  best 

To  Mow  luT  ;ii;aiii.st  tin-  young  man's 

breast, 
Wb«'re  he  as  gladly  folded  her  in. 
And  kissed  h»'r  mouth  anil  her  dim- 
pled chin  ".' 

Ah!  Ellery  Vane,  you  little  thought, 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you, 
At'tt-r  the  sun  had  dried  tiif  dew. 
\Vhat  perilous  danger  you'd  i)e  in. 
As   she   tied   her   bonnet  under  h(  r 
chin! 


SOME   DA  y   OF  DA  YS. 

SoMK  <lay;  some  day  of  days,  thread- 
ing the  street 
With  idle,  heedless  pace, 
Unlooking  for  such  grace, 
I  shall  bcliold  your  face! 
Some  day,  some  day  of  liays,   thus 
may  we  meet. 


I'm 


liam-e  the  sun   may  shine   from 
skies  uf  May, 


Or  winter's  icy  chill 
Touch  whitelv  vale  and  hill 
What  matter?     1  shall  thrill 
Through  every  vein  with  summer  or. 
that  day. 

Once  more  life's  iH-rfect  youth   will 
all  come  back. 
And  tor  a  mommt  there 
1  shall  stand  fre>h  and  fair, 
And  drop  the  garmeiU  care; 
(Mice   more   my    perfect    youth   wil! 
nothing  lack. 

1  shut  my  eyes  now,  thinking  how 
'twin  be,— 
How  face  to  faci'  each  seuil 
Will  slij)  its  loll','  control, 
l-oiget  the  di>aiial  ilole 

Of  dreary  Fate's  dark  seiiarating  sea ; 

And  glance  to  glance,  and  hand  to 
hand  in  greeting. 
The  jiast  with  all  its  fears, 
Its  silences  and  tears. 
Its  lonely,  yearning  years, 
.shall  vaiii>h  in  the  moment  of  that 
meeting. 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


ALL  Tin:  nnr.its. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea."' 
Like  the  ]>ulsing  of  a  river, 
The  motion  of  a  song. 
Wind  the  olden  wonls  along 
The  toiluous  tutniiiigs  of  my  thoughts 

wlieneVer 

\  sit  beside  the  sea. 

"  .\11  the  river^  run  into  the  sea." 
( )  you  little  lejiping  river 
Laugh  oiilH-ueath  \our  breath! 
With  a  heart  as  deep  a«  death, 
>'roiig  stn-anL  Ko  patient,  gnive,  and 
li:»siiii'4  never,  — 

I   sit   lie>tidi-  the  sea. 

"  All  ilie  rivir^  run  into  the  sea." 
Why  the  passion  of  a  river? 
The  striving  of  u  soul  '? 


V.i\\u\  the  eternal  waters  roll 
I  poll    the    eternal   sliore.     At    last, 
whatever 
.•-•eeks  it  —  tinds  the  sea. 

"  All  the  ri\ers  run  into  the  sea.'' 
o  tliou  bounding,  burning  river. 
Hurrying  heart !     I  seem 
To  know  (so one  knows  in  adream) 
That    in   the   waiting   heart  of  (Jod 
forever, 

Thou  loo  sbalt  lind  the  sea. 


cHoitar.  r.i.ior. 

\  LILY  rooted  in  a  .sacred  soil, 
.\rniyed  with  those  wlio  neither  spin 

nor  loll : 
Dinah,    the    preacher,     ilirougli    the 

jmrple  air. 


PHELPS. 


41? 


Forever,  in  her  gentle  evening  prayer, 
yhall  plead  for  her  —  what  ear  too 

deaf  to  hear  t'  — 
"As  if  she  spoke  to  some  one  very 

near." 

And  he  of   storied  Florence,  whose 

great  heart 
Broke  for  its  human  error;  wrapped 

apart,  |  llame 

And  scorching  in  the  swift,  prophetic 
Of    passion    for    late    holiness    and 

shame 
Than  untried  glory  grander,  gladder, 

higher — 
Deathless,  for  her,  he  "  testifies   by 

lire." 

A  statue,  fair  and  firm,  on  marble 

feet, 
Womanhood's     woman,     Dorothea, 

sweet 
As    strength,  and  strong  as  tender- 

n(;ss,  to  make 
A   "struggle    with    the    dark"    for 

white  light's  sake, 
Immortal  stands,  unanswered  speaks. 

.Shall  they. 
Of    her    great   liand    the    moulded, 

breathing  clay, 
Her  fit,  select,  and  proud  survivors 

be?  — 
Possess  the  life  eternal,  and  not  she  f 


There  is  no  sadness  in  the  world. 
No  other  like  it  here  or  there,  — 
The  sadness  of  deserted  homes 
In  nests,  or  hearts,  or  anywhere. 


DESERTED  NESTS. 

I'd  rather  see  an  empty  bough, — 
A  dreary,  weai^  bough  that  hung 
As  boughs  will  hang  within  whose 

arms 
\o  mated  birds  had  ever  sung; 
Far  rathtM-  than  to  see  or  touch 
The  sadness  of  an  empty  nest 
Where  joy  has  been,  but  is  not  now; 
Where  love  has  been,  but  is  not  blest. 


A  LETTER. 

Two  things  love  can  do, 

Only  two: 
Can  distrust,  or  can  believe; 
It  can  die,  or  it  can  live, 
There  is  no  syncope 
Possible  to  love  or  me. 

Go  your  ways ! 

Two  things  you  can  do. 

Only  two: 
Be  the  thing  you  used  to  be, 
.   Or  be  nothing  more  to  me. 
I  can  but  joy  or  grieve, 
Can  no  more  than  die  or  live. 

Go  yom-  ways ! 

So  far  I  wrote,  my  darling,  drearily, 
But  now  my  sad  pen  falls  down  wear 

iiy 

From  out  my  trembling  hand. 

I  did  not,  do  not,  cannot  mean  it, 

dear ! 
Come  life  or  death,   joy,   grief,   of 

hope,  or  fear, 
I  bless  you  where  I  stand ! 

I  bless  you  where  I  stand,  excusinq 

you. 
No  speech  nor  language  for  accusing 

you 
My  laggard  lips  can  learn. 

To  you  —  be  what  you  are,  or  can,  to 

me,  — 
To  you  or  blessedly  or  fatefully 
My  heart  must  tmai  1 


418 


PIATT. 


John  James  Piati\ 


liEAOISO    lUK   MILES  lOSE. 

I  sToi'i'Ki)  to  remi  the  inik'stonehere, 
A  liiuijani  s«'hot>l-boy.  loiii;  a^co; 

I  cuiiii'  nor  tar  —  my  home  was  lu'ar — 
IJut  ah   now  far  I  longed  to  go! 

Hcholil  a  number  and  a  name, 
.V  linj^er.  weslwanl,  cut  iu  stone: 

The  vision  of  a  city  came, 
Acrossthe  (lust  and  distance  shown. 

Arouml  me  lay  tlie  farms  asleep 

In  ha/.es  of  autumnal  air, 
And  souuils  that  tjuiel  loves  to  keep 

Were  heard,  and  heard  not,  every- 
where. 

1  read  the  milestone,  day  hy  day: 
I  yearned  tocross  the  barren  bound, 

To  know  tlie  golden  Far-away. 

To     walk     the     new     Enchanted 
Ground! 


TWO  /'.ITI^OXS. 

•' WuAT  shall   I   sing?"    I   sighed, 
and  said. 
"That  men  shall  know  me  when 
my  name 
Is  lost  with  kindred  lips,  and  dead 
Are  lamels  of  familiar  fame?  " 

Helow,  a  violet  in  the  dew 

Hreathed    throu;;h     the    dark     its 
vague  perfume; 
Above,  a  star  in  <|uiet  blue 
Touched  with  a  gracious   ray    the 
gloom. 

"Sing,   frieml.  «)f    ine."     the    violet 
sii.'h<'d. 
"  rii:it    I    may   haunt    your  grave 
with  love;" 
*'Sing.  frienil,   i>f  me,"  iht!  star  re- 
plied, 
"  That  I  may  light  tlie  .lark  above." 


THE  SKIIIT  OF  .WOEI.S. 

Till    an>,'ilH  ronie.  the  angels  uo. 
Through  open  doors  of  purer  air; 


Their    moving   presence   oftentimes 
we  know. 
It  thrilLs  us  ev«'ry  where. 

Sometimes  we  see  them;  lolat  night. 
Our  eyes   were   shut,   but  opened 
-eem : 
The  darkness   breathed  a  breath   of 
wondrous  light. 
And  then  it  was  a  dream! 


THE   LOrE-LETTER. 

I  OREKT  thee,  loving  letter  — 
Unopened,  kis.s  thee  free, 

And  dream  her  lips  within  thee 
(Jive  back  the  kiss  to  me! 

The  fragrant  little  rose-leaf. 
She  sends  by  thee,  is  come: 

Ah.  in  her  heart  was  blooming 
The  rose  she  stole  it  from! 


T/fE   GOLDES  HAS  It. 

Lo,  from  the  city's  heat  and  dust 
A  iiolden  hand  forever  thrust, 
rplifting  from  a  ^pire  on  high 
A  shining  lingi-r  in  the  sky! 

I  spp  It  when  the  morning  l)rings 
Kre-h  tides  of  life  to  living  things. 
And  llie  '^real  world  aw. ikes:  behold, 
Th;it  lifted  hand  li.  morning  gold  I 

T  see  It  wlion  tho  n«»onlide  heaths 
I'nlses  of  fire  in  busy  streets; 
The  dusi  Hies  in  ilie  llamiin;  air: 
Above,  that  <|uiet  haml  is  then*. 

I  .see  It  when  the  twilight  clings 

T<»    the  dark   earth    with    hoveriiiR 

w  ings: 
FlasbiniT  with  the  last  lluttering  ray. 
That  u'olden  haml  remembers  day. 

The  midiii'.:lil  <'oines  —  the  holy  hour: 
Tbeeiiv  lil<e  a  giant  (lower 
Slii-ps  tullnf  (l.-w  :  tba*  hand,  in  light 
Of    moon    and    stars,    how    welrdlj 
bright! 


PIATT. 


419 


Bolow,  ill  many  a  noisy  street 
Are  toiling  liands  and  striving  feet; 
The  weakest  rise,  the  strongest  fall; 
That  equal  hand  is  over  all. 

lielow,  in  coiuts  to  guard  the  land, 
Gold  buys  the  tongue  and  binds  the 

hand; 
Stealing  in  God's  great  scales    the 

gold; 
That  awful  hand,  above,  behold ! 

Below,  the  Sabbaths  walk  serene 
With  the  great  dust  of  (hiys  between ; 
Preachers  within  their  imlpits  stand: 
See,  over  all,  that  heavenly  hand ! 


But  the  hot  dust,  in  crowded  air 

Below,  arises  never  there: 

O  speech  of  one  who  cannot  speak! 

O  Sabbath-witness  of  the  Week  I 


A  SONG   OF  CONTENT. 

The  eagle  nestles  near  the  sun; 

The  dove's  low  nest  for  me!  — 
The  eagle's  on  the  crag:  sweet  one, 

The  dove's  in  our  green  tree. 
For  hearts  that  beat  like  thine  and 
mine. 

Heaven  blesses  hninble  earth ; 
The  angels  of  our  Heaven  shall  shine 

The  angels  of  our  hearth  1 


Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt. 


TO-DA  Y. 

Ah,  real  tiling  of  bloom  and  breath, 
I  cannot  love  you  while  you  stay; 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away, 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday! 

Lot  empty  flower-dust  at  my  feet 
Pciiiind  me  of  tlie  buds  you  wear; 

I.i't  the  bird's  quiet  show  how  sweet 
Tlu^  far-off  singing  made  the  air; 
And   let  your  dew  through  frost 
look  fair. 

In  mourning  you  I  shall  rejoice, 
(lo:  for  the  bitter  word  may  be 

A  music  —  in  the  vanished  voice; 
And  on  the  dead  face  I  may  see 
How  bright  its  frown  has  been  to 
me. 

Tbon  in  the  haunted  grass  Pll  sit, 
llalf-tcarfiil  in  your  witliertMl  place. 

And  watcli  your  lovely  shadow  flit 
Across  To-morrow's  sunny  face, 
.\nd    vex    her   with    your    perfect 

gI"lC(\ 

So.  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, 
[  weary  of  you  while  y(ni  stay. 

Tut  (m  the  dim.  still  charm  of  death. 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away. 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday! 


LAST   WORDS. 

GooD-NiOHT,     pretty     sleepers     of 
mine  — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again : 
Ah,  never  in  shadow  or  shine; 

Ah,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain ! 

In  your  small  dreaming-dresses    of 
white, 
AVith  the  wild-bloom  you  gathered 
to-day 
In  your  quiet  shut  hands,  from  the 
light 
And   the  dark,  you    will    \\ander 
away. 

Though  no  graves  in  the  bee-haunted 
grass. 
And  no  love  in  the  beautiful  sky. 
Shall    take    you    as    yet,    you    will 
pass, 
With  this  kiss  througli  these  tear- 
drops.    Good-by ! 

With  less  gold  and  more  glooui   in 
flieir  hair. 
Wbi'H  the  buds  near  have  faded  to 
flowers. 
Three  faces  may  wake  here  as  fair  — 
But     oldi-r     than    yours     arc     b\ 
hours ! 


4liU 


PIATT. 


Good-ni^ht,    then,   lost  darlings    of 
mine  — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again: 
Ab,  never  in  shadow  nor  shine; 

Ah,  never  in  liew  nor  in  rain! 


A  DREAira  .Hr.lKKSISr.. 

Suit  in  a  close  and  dreary  sleep, 
Lonely    and    frightened    and    op- 
pressed 
1  felt  a  ilreadful  serpent  creep, 

Writliiiig  and    crushing    o'er    my 
breast. 

I  woke  and  knew  my  child's  sweet 

arm, 

As  soft  and  pure  as  flakes  of  snow. 

Beneath  my  dream's  dark,   hateful 

charm, 

riad  been  tlie  thing  that  tortured  so. 

Anil  in  the  morning's  dew  and  light 

I  seemed  to  hear  an  angel  say, 
"  The  I'uin  that  stings  in  Time's  low 
night 
May  prove  God's  Love  in  higher 
day," 


THAT  A'EW   »'Ol!LI). 

How  grar-icjus  we  are  to  grant  to  the 
di-a<l 
Those   wide,   vague  lands  in    the 
foreign  sky, 
Iteserving  this   world   for   ourselves 
instead  — 
For  we  must  live,   though  others 
must  die! 

And  what  is  this  world  that  wt;  keej), 

I  y)rfty  ? 

True,  it  lias  glim])ses  of  dews  and 

(lowi-rs; 

ilii-n  Voulh  and  Lovr  an-  lurr  and 

away,  |(tiirs. 

Like  mated  birds  —  bul   nothing  is 

Ah,  nothing  indicd,  but   wr  cling  to 
it  all. 
It   U    tiiilbing   to   hrar   on<-'s  own 
heart  beat, 


It  is  nothing  to  see  one's  own  tears 
fall; 
Yet  surely  the  breath  of  oiu  life  la 
sweet. 

Yes,   the   breath   of  our   life    is    so 
sweet.  I  fear 
We  wen-  loath  to  give  it  for  all  we 
know 
Of  that  cbarmfed  country  we  hold  so 
dear. 
Far  into  whose  beauty  the  breath- 
less go. 

Yet  <'ertain   we  are,   when   we    see 
them  fade 
Out  of   the  pleasant  light  of  the 
sun. 
Of  the  sands  of  gold   in   the  palm- 
leaf's  shade. 
And    the   strange    high   jewels   all 
thesi!  have  won. 

You  dare  not  doubt  it,   O  soul  of 
miiu'! 
And  yet  if  these  empty  eyes  could 
see 
One,  oidy  one,  from  that  voyage  di- 
vine, 
\Vitli  something,  anything  sure  for 
me  I 

Ah.  blow  nic  the  scent  of  one  lily,  to 

It'll 
That  it  grew  oiitsi  le  of  Ibis  world 

at  most ; 
Ah,  sliow  me  a  plume  to  touch,  or  a 

Sb.'ll 

That   whisjH'rs  of  Mime   unearthly 
coast ! 


M.iKISa   I'K.HK. 

AiTKic  this  feud  of  yours  and  mine 

The  sun  will  shine; 
After  we  l)otli  forget,  forget, 

The  sun  will  si  i. 

1    pniy   you   think   how    w.-inn    and 

SW.cl 

TIm-  li<;irl  ran  beat : 
1  pray  yoii  think  bow  soon  tb<-  rose 
From  grave-«lust  grows. 


PIATT, 


42] 


CALLING    THE  DEAD. 

Mv   little  child,   so  sweet  a    voice 

might  wake 

So   sweet  a  sleeper  for  so  sweet  a 

sake.  [you, 
Calling  your  buried  brother  back  to 

You  laugh  and  listen  —  till  I  listen 

too! 

Why  does  he  listen  ?    It  may  be  to 

hear 
Sounds    too    divine     to    reach     ray 

troubled  oar. 
Why  does  he  laugh  ?     It  may  be  he 

can  see 
The  face  that  only  tears  can  hide 

from  me. 

Pool  baby  faith  —  so  foolish  or  so 
wise : 

The  name  I  shape  out  of  forlorncst 
cries  • 

He  speaks  as  with  a  bird's  or  blos- 
som's breath. 

How  fair  the  knowledge  is  that 
knows  not  Death ! 

Ah,  fools  and  blind  —  through  all  the 

piteous  years 
Searchers  of  stars  and  graves  —  how 

many  seers, 
fulling  the  dead,  and  seeking  for  a 

sign. 
Have  laughed  and  listened,  like  this 

cliild  of  mine  ? 


THE  FLOWETiS  IN  THE   GIIOUXT). 

UvoKK  the  coffin-lid  there  are  roses: 
They  bud  like  dreams  in  the  sleep 
of  the  dead ; 
And  the  long,  vague  dark  that  around 
them  closes 
Is   flushed   and   sweet   with    their 
glory  of  red. 


From  the  buried  seeds  of  love  they 
blossom, 
All  crimson-stained  from  its  blood 
they  start; 
And  each  sleeper  wears  them  on  hi 
bosom, 
Clasped  over  the  pallid  dust  of  his 
heart. 

When  the  Angel  of  Morning  shall 
shake  the  slumber 
Away  from  the  graves  with   his 
lighted  wings, 
He  will  gather  those  roses,  an  infi- 
nite number, 
And   bear  them  to   Heaven,    the 
beautiful  things! 


ASKING  FOR   TEARS. 

Oil.  let  me  come  to  Thee  in  this  wild 

way. 
Fierce    with  a  grief    that  will    not 

sleei),  to  pray 
Of  all   thy  treasures.   Father,    only 

one. 
After  which  I  may  say  —  Thy  will  be 

done. 

Nay,  fear  not  thou  to  make  my  time 

too  sweet; 
I  nurse   a  Sorrow, —  kiss  its  hands 

and  feet, 
Call  it  all  piteous,  precious  names. 

and  ti-j". 
Awake  at  night,  to  hush  its  helpless 

017. 

The  sand  is  at  my  moaning  lip.  tin 

glare 
Of  the  uplifted  desert  fills  the  air; 
My  eyes  are  blind  and  burning,  au' 

the  years 
Stretch  on  before    me.     Therefore 

give  me  tears ! 


422 


I'lEliPONT. 


John  Pierpont. 


77/ A-   I'll.iUtlM  FATHERS. 
TiiK    I'il^'riiii    FalluTs  —  wlinc   are 

Tho  waves  that  brought  (Ikmii  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  ainl  tliruu  their 
spray. 
As  they  i>rpak  alonij  (he  shore; 
JStill  roll  ill  the  bay,  as  thev  rolled  that 
'lay. 
When  the Mayflowermoored below, 
When  till"  sea  around  was  black  with 
storms. 
And  while  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  Pil,i,Minrs 

sleep. 

•Still  brood  upon  the  tide; 
And  the  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by 
the  deep, 
To  slay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave 
to  the  Kale, 
When  the  Tuavens  looked  dark,  is 
gone;  — 
As  an  antiel's  wing,  through  an  open- 
ing eloiid. 
Is  seen  and  then  withdrawn. 

The Pil'^'rim exile  —  sainted  name!  — 

The  hill,  whose  iey  liroW 

Kejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  themoni- 
ing's  llauie, 
In  the  morning's  fl.ime  burns  now. 
And  the  m(ii.n'>  cold  light,  as  it  l.tv 
that  night 
On  till-  hill-side  and  llie  sea, 
Still  lies  where  lie  laid  his  houseless 
luatl;  — 
Hut  the  rilgrini  —  where  Is  lie  ? 

*he  rilgrini  Fathers  are  at  rest: 

When  siiiiiiiier  is  throned  on  high, 
Ami  the  world's  wanii  breast  is  in 
verdure  dressjd, 

(io,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  tlie  golden  day. 

On  tli.-il  halloued  split  is  east; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  lie  leaves  the 
wnrld. 

Looks  kindiv  on  that  spot  last. 


The  I'ilu'rim  mdril  has  not  (led: 
It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light; 
And   it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glo- 
rious dead. 
With  the  holy  stars  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  whi 
have  bled. 
And    shall   guard    this    ice-bound 
shore. 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the 
May  (lower  lay. 
Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


MY   (III LI). 

I  CANNOT  make  him  dead! 
His  fair  siinshiny  head 
Is  ever   iiounding    round   my   study 
chair; 
Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 
With  tears.  1  turn  to  him, 
The    vision    vanishes  —  he    is    not 
there. 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor. 

.\nd.  through  theo])en  door, 
I  hear  a  tool  fall  on  the  chamber  stair, 

r  m  sle|>]iing  toward  the  hall. 

To  give  the  i)oy  a  call ; 
And  then    bethink   me  that  —  he  is 
not  there: 

I  thread  the  crowded  street, 
A  salchelled  lad  I  meet, 
Willi  the  same  beaming  eyesand  col- 
ored hair: 
And,  as  he  's  running  by, 
Follow  him  with  my  eye. 
Scarcely  believing  that  —  he   is  not 
there! 

I  know  his  f.ice  is  hid 
I'lider  the  eonili  lid: 
Closed  are  his  eyes:  cold  is  llis  fore- 
head fair; 
My  hand  that    marble  felt: 
O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  (hat  —  he  is 
iiot  there. 


FOE. 


423 


I  cannot  make  bim  dead ! 
AVhen  passing  by  tbe  bed, 
So  long  watcbed  over  witb  parental 
care, 
My  spirit  and  my  eye 
Seek  bim  inquiringly, 
Before  tbe  tbouglit  tomes  tbat  —  be 
is  not  there ! 

Wben,  at  tbe  cool,  gray  break 
Of  day,  from  sleep  1  wake, 
Witb  my  (irst  breathing  of  tbe  morn- 
ing air, 
My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 
To  Him  who  gave  my  boy ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  tliat  — 
be  is  not  there! 

When  at  tbe  day's  calm  close. 

Before  we  seek  repose,     [prayer, 
I'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our 

Whate'cr  1  may  be  saying. 

1  am  in  ^ijirit  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though  —  be  is 
not  there ! 


Not  there !  —  Where  then  is  be  ? 
The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  t;he  raiment  that  be  used  to 
wear. 
The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 
Upon  that  cast-off  dress. 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked;  —  be  is 
not  tbei'e! 

He  lives! —  In  all  the  past 
He  lives;  nor,  to  the  last. 

Of  seeing  him  again  will  1  despair; 
In  dreams  1  see  bim  now;    • 
And,  on  his  angel  I)row, 

I  see  it  written,  "  Thou  shalt  see  me 
then-!  " 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 
Fatheu,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  atHicted   ones,  to 
bear, 
That,  in  tbe  spirit-land. 
Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that  — 
lie  is  there! 


Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
Tbat  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you 
may  know 
By  tbe  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  witb  no 
other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

/  was  a  child  and  she  Avas  a  child. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea: 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was 
more  than  love  — 
I  and  my  Annai)el  Lee; 
With  a  h>\\'.  that  the  winged  seraphs 
of  heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  tbat,  long 
In  the  kingdom  by  the  sea, 


A  wind  blew  out  of  tbe  cloud,  chilling 
]My  lieautiful  Annabel  Lee; 

So  that  her  bighboin  kinsmen  came 
Xwd  boi'i'  her  away  from  me, 

To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 
In  this  kingdom  by  tbe  sea, 

Tbe  angels,   not  half    so  happy  in 
heaven, 
Went  envying  her  and  me  — 
Yes!  —  tbat   was  tbe  reason  (as   all 
men  know. 
In  this  kinirdom  by  tbe  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud 
by  night, 
('billing  and    killiuLc  mv   Annabel 
Lee. 

But  oiu-  love  it  was  stronger  by  far 
(ban  tbe  love 
Of  those  tliat  were  older  than  we  — 
Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  — 
And    iiiMliier   the  angels   in    heuveu 
above. 


424 


POE. 


Nor  the  demons  down  uiulcr  tin- 

sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the 

soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without 
bringing  me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stai-s  never  rise,  but  1  fool 
the  liright  eyes 
Of  the  l)eautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so.  all  the  night-tide,  1  lie  dow)i 

by  tlie  side 
« )l     my '  darling  —  my   darling —  my 
life  and  my  bride, 
In  her  sepukbre  there  by  the  s«'a, 
In  her  tond)  by  the  somiding  sea. 


TlIK  HELLS. 

Hr.Ai:  the  sledges  witli  the  bells  — 
Silver  bells! 
What  a  worlil  of  merriment  their  mel- 
ody foretells  I 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle. 

In  till-  icy  air  of  n.igbl ! 
Wbile  Ibe  >lars  that  ovtisi.rinkle 
All  Ibr  beavens.  seem  ti>  twinkle 
With  a  (•ry>tal!ine  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  suit  of  Hiiine  rhyme. 
To  tlie  tintinnabulatirtn  that  so  musi- 
cally «ells 
From  tlie  liells.  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Hells,   brils.   bell.-,— 

Friiin  tbe  jinuling  and  the  tinkling 
(»f  tbe  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
(iolden  bells! 
Wbat  a  worlil  <>f  liai>|>inoss  their  har- 
mony foreli  lis! 
'I'brouub  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  tbev  rim:  out  tbeir  deligbt ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notos. 

And  all  in  tuni'. 
What  a  lii|iiid  ditty  lloats 
To    tlie    turtle-dove    that     listens, 
wliile  >he  glfiat.s 
On  tlie  MKMin! 
f)h,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What    a    gush   of  eiipbony   volund- 
noiiNly  wells! 


How  it  sw(>lls ! 

How  it  dwells 

On  the  future!  how  it  tells 

Of  tbe  rapture  tbat  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  tbe  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  iiells.  bells,  belLs,  bells. 
Hells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rbvming  and  the  chiming  of 
the  "bells  I 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bolls  — 
Hrazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  tur 
buleiiey  tells! 
in  tbe  startled  ear  of  night 
How  tliey  scream  out  'lu'ir  alTright! 
Too  mncb  linrritie<l  to  speak. 
They  can  only  sJiriek,  shriek, 
( )ul  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mer- 
cy of  the  tire. 
In  a  mad  exi>ostulatiou  with  the  deaf 
and  frantic  (ire 
Leai)ing  higher,  higher,  liigber, 
Witii  a  dcsi>erate  desire. 
And  a  resolute  encK'avor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
Hy  the  side  of  thc])ale-face(l  moon. 
Oh.  lb."  bells,   bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  tbeir  terror  tells 
Of  li.spair! 
How  tliey  clang,  and  clash,  and 

roar! 
\\liat  a  horror  they  otU])oin- 
On  the  bosom  of  the  paliiitatim; 
air! 
Yet  tlie  ear  it  fully  knows. 
Ry  tbe  twanging. 
And  tbe  clanging. 
TIow  the  danger  eblis  and  flows: 
Yet  tbe  ear  distinctly  t.-lls. 
In  tbe  jani;ling. 
And  tbe  wrangling. 
How  tbe  diiii'.;<r  sinks  and  swells. 
Hv  the  siiikim:  or  tbe  swelling  in  the 
•  lll-cr  of  tbe  bells  — 
Of  the  bells  — 
Of  tbe  bclN.  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Hdls.  bells,  bells  — 
111  tbe  r-l.inior  an<l  the  clangor  of 

Ibe  bells! 

Hoar  tbe  tolling  <>f  tin-  bells  — 
Iron  bells! 


POE. 


425 


IVhat  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their 
monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
A.t  the  melancholy  menace  of  their 
tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muthed  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  their  rolling 
On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human ; 
They  are  ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 
A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pwan  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  ptean  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  throbblnij  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,' bells  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
As  ke  knells,  knells,  knells, 


In  a  happy  Runic  rhjTne, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
To  the  lolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of 
the  bells. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  heavens 
above. 
The    angels,    whispering    to    one 
another. 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms 
of  love. 
None    so    devotional    as    that    of 
"  Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long 
have  called  you  — 
You  who   are  more  than  mother 
unto  me. 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where 
death  installed  you 
In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My   mother  —  my  own  mother,  wlio 
died  early,  |you 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but 
Are  mother  to    the   one  i  loved  so 
dearly. 
And    thus    are    dearer    than    the 
mother  I  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 
Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul- 
life. 


THE  TtAVEN. 
Once  upon  a  midniglit  dreaiy,  wliile  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volunie  of  forgotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  naj^ping,  suddenly  tliere  cani(>  a  tapping, 
Vs  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  ai  my  chamber  door, 
'^is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  ''tai>ping  at  my  chamber  door  — 

Oidy  tills  and  nothing  more.' 

All.  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December. 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  T  had  sought  to  l)orr<)W 
From  my  books  surceas(>  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  foi-  tbe  lost  r,enore  — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  tlir  .iii'vN  n.inie  Lenore  — 

Nameless  here  for  ever  more. 


426  POtJ. 

Anil  the  silki-u,  sat!  uiucrtain  mstlini:  of  (.'ucli  iuiri)lt'  curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  tillod  nic  with  fantasti>-  t<'rrors  in-vcr  ft'lt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  heating  uf  my  heart.  1  stood  repeating 
'*  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamher  door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  ehamher  door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir."  said  1,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  1  implore; 
iJut  thefaet  is  '  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  eame  rapping. 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  ehanil>rr  door, 
That  1  scarce  was  sure  1  lu'ard  you  "  — here  I  opened  wide  the  door;  — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more 

I)eei>  into  the  darkness  peering,  long  1  stootl  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  ilream  before; 
But  the  silence  wa--  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  siiokcn  was  the  whisiiercd  word  "  I.enore?" 
This  I  \vlii>pi'ii'(|.  and  an  itIki  innrmured  back  the  word  "  JA'norel"  — 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

liack  into  the  chanilier  lurning.  all  my  soul  within  nn;  burning. 
Soon  again  1  heard  a  tap[iing  somewhat  louder  than  infore. 
"Siuely."  said  I,  "sunly  that  is  something  at  njy  wimlow  lattice; 
Let  me  see  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  — 
Lei  my  heart  he  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore;  — 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flnng  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter. 
In  there  stepi)ed  a  stately  Haven  of  the  saiiUly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a  minute  slopped  or  stayed  lie; 
J{ut,  with  mien  of  lonl  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chandu-r  door  — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  I'allas  just  above  my  chandler  d(»or  — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more 

Then  this  ebony  bird  hegniling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

IJy  the  gravt!  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore. 

"  Though  thy  crest  hi;  shorn  and  shaviMi.  thou,  '  1  saitl.  "  art  sure  no  cravei 

(Jhastly,  grim  and  ancient  Haven,  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore  — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Niirbt's  I'lutonian  shore!" 

(^uoth  the  Haven,  "  Nevermore." 

Muib  1  marvelled  this  imgainly  fo'vl  to  hear  disci  nu'sc  so  plaiidy. 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  litlh-  rel<-vancy  ixire; 

i'"or  wr'  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 

Kver  yet  wjis  blessed  with  seeing  bird  abovi'  his  chandter  door  — 

Bird  or  beast  iijwn  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chandx'r  door. 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

Uul  the  Haven,  sitting  lom-ly  on  that  placid  bust,  sjxike  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  \\ord  he  did  oul]iour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then  he  llull<Tcd  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered  "Other  friends  have  llown  liefore  — 
On  the  morrow  In   will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  llown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said  "  Nevermore.'* 


POE.  427 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  1,  '"  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  tiuni  .soiiu'  unhai)i)y  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore  — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  bm'den  bore 

Of  ■  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  1  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  tlie  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore.' 

This  1  sat  engaged  In  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  lieiy  eyes  now  biu-nod  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion'o  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er. 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 

8ht  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 

"  Wretch,"  1  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  — by  these  angels  he  hat^ 

sent  tJiee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

'•  Prophet!  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil!  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 

WJK^thcr  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted  — 

On  Ibis  home  by  horror  havmted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  — 

Is  there  —  i.s  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  — tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven.  "  Nevennoi«." 

"  Prophet!"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
Y>y  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasn  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  railiant  maiilen  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  He  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I  shrieked,  upstarting 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plunK*  as  a  token  of  thai  lie  tliy  son!  hath  sjioken! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken!  —  quit  the  bust  alH)ve  my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door!  ' 

CJuoth  tlie  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeiiiing  of  a  demon's  tliat  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  bis  shadow  on  the  (Wir. 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  llo.iling  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifteil  —  nevt-rmore' 


428 


POLLOK. 


Robert  Pollok. 


[From  Tin-  I  our  HI-  iif  I'iiiu:.] 

LOUD   HYIiOS. 

IIk  tuuclu-il  his  luirp.  uii<l  luiiiuiis 
heard,  cnlr.inceil. 

As  some  vast  rivtr  of  uiitailinij 
source, 

Iiupid,  exhauslless,  deep,  liis  iitiiii- 
beis  Howed, 

And  oped  new  fountains  in  ihe  hu- 
man heart. 

Wliere  Fancy  Iialted,  wearv  in  hi-r 
tliglit. 

In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning, 
rose 

And  soared  nntrnd'Ipn  heights,  and 

seemed  at   linme. 
Where  angels  hashful  looked.     Oth- 
ers, though  great 
Beneatli     tlu-ir     argument     seemed 

struggling  whiles; 
He  from  ahove  deseeiiiling  stooped  to 

toiieh 
The    loftiest    ihoughl;    and    jiroudly 

stooiM'd.  as  though 
It  scarce  dest-rveil   his  verse.     With 

Nature's  self 
lie  seemed  an  oM  acipiaintanoe,  free 

to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  ujion  "  the  Oceans 

mane,"' 
And  played  familiar  with  his  lioary 

locks;  jennines. 

Stood  on   Ihe  Ali>s,  stond  on  the  .\p- 
And   with    the    thinider    talked,    as 

frii  nd  lo  friend  : 
.\iid    wove    his  garland  of   the   liu'hi- 

ning's  wing. 
In    sportive    twist,    the    lightning's 

fiery  wing, 
Whieh.  as  the  footstepH  of  thedn'ad- 

ful  (;o<I, 
Marching    upon   the  storm   in  ven- 
geance, tHieiued; 


Then    turned,    and    with    the    grass- 
hopper, who  sung 
His  evening  soig  beneath  his   feet. 

conversed. 
Smis.  moons,  ami  stars,  and  clouds, 

his  sisters  were; 
Kocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and 

w  inds,  and  storms. 
His  brothers,  younger  brothers,whom 

he  scarce 
As  etpials  deemed.     All  passions  of 

all  men, 
The  vild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and 

seveic; 
All  tlioughls.  all  niaxims.  sacred  and 

jjinfane; 
All  creeds,   all   .seasons.  Time.  Kter- 

nity ; 
All  that  was  haled,  all  tin),  that  w;u> 

dear; 
.V'.l    that    was   hoped,  all    that    was 

feared,  by  man; 
He    tossed    about,    lus    tempest-with- 
ered leaves. 
Then,  smiling,  looked  upon  tin-  wre<'k 

he  made. 
With  terror  now  he  froze  I  lie  cower- 

int;  rilood, 
.\n<l  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  ten 

derness; 
Vel    would   not    trciublc.    woidd    not 

weep  himself; 
r.ut     back     into     his    smd     retired. 

alone. 
Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contempt 

uotisly 
On   hearts  and  i>assions  i>roslnite  at 

his  feel. 
So  0<'e;tii  from  Ihe  ]ilaiiis  his  waves 

had  late 
To     desolation     sw<i>l,     retired      in 

pride, 
Kxulling  in  the  glory  of  his  iidghl. 
And  seemed  to  mock  tin-  ruin  le'  \v- 

wrought. 


POPE. 


429 


ALEXANDER    POPE. 


FROM  "ELOISA    TO  ABE  LARD." 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful 
cells, 

Where  heavenly-pensive  Contempla- 
tion dwells, 

Antl  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns; 

What  means  this  tumult  in  a  vestal's 
veins  ? 

Why  rove  my  thoughts  beyond  this 
last  retreat  ? 

Why  feels  my  heart  its  long-forgot- 
ten heat  ? 

Yet,  yet  I  love!  —  From  Abelard  it 
came, 

And  Eloisa  yet  must  kiss  the  name. 
Dear    fatal    name !  rest  ever  unre- 
vealed. 

Nor  pass  these  lips,  in  holy   silence 
sealed :  [disguise. 

Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close 

Where,  mixed  with  God's,  his  loved 
idea  lies: 

0  write  it  not,  my  hand  —  the  name 

appears  [tears! 

Already  written  —  wash  it  out,  my 
In  vain  lost  Eloisa  weeps  and  prays, 
Her  heart  still  dictates,  and  her  hand 

obeys. 
Relentless  walls!  whose  darksome 

round  contains 
Repentant  sighs,  and  voluntary  pains : 
Ye   rugged  rocks,  which  holy  knees 

have  worn: 
Ye  grots  and   caverns  shagged  with 

horrid  thorn ! 
Shrines!  where  their  vigils  pale-eyed 

virgins  keep. 
And   pitying  saints,    whose    statues 

learn  to  weep! 
Though  cold  like  you,  immoved  and 

silent  grown, 

1  have  not  yet  forgot  myself  to  stone. 
All  is  not    Heaven's  while  Abelard 

has  jiart. 
Still  rebel  nature  holds  out  half  my 

heart; 
Nor  pi-ayers  nor   fasts    its   stubborn 

))ulse  restrain,  [vain. 

Nor  tears  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in 


Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  un- 
close, 
That  well-known  name  awakens  all 

my  woes. 
Oh,   name,   for  ever   sad!    for  ever 

dear! 
Still  breathed  in  sighs,  still  ushered 

with  a  tear. 
I  tremble,  too,  whene'er  my  own  I 

lind; 
Some  dire  misfortune  follows  close 

behind. 
Line  after  line  my  gushing  eyes  o'er- 

llow, 
Led  through  a  sad  variety  of  woe: 
Now  warm  In  love,  now  withering  in 

my  bloom. 
Lost  In  a  convent's  solitary  gloom! 
There  stern    rt^llglon    <iuenched   the 

unwilling  tlame, 
There  ilied  the  best  of  passions,  love 

and  fame. 
Yet  write,  oh !  write  me  all,  that  1 

may  join 
Griefs  to  thy  griefs,  and  echo  sighs 

to   thine. 
Nor  foes  nor  fortune  take  this  power 

away; 
And  is  my  Abelard  less  kind  than 

they  :' 
Tears  still  are  mine,  and  those  I  need 

not  spare. 
Love   but   demands  what  else  were 

shed  In  prayer; 
No   happier  task    these    faded   eyes 

jiursue; 
To  lead  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can 

do. 
Then   share  thy  pain,  allow  that 

sad  ri'licf: 
Ah,  more  than  share  it!  give  me  all 

thy  grief. 
Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some 

wretch's  aid. 
Some  hanislied   lovi'r,  or  some  ca))- 

tlve  maid : 
They  live,  tliry  sncjik.  they  breathe 

wliat  l(i\('  ins])ii('s. 
Warm  from  the  soul,  and  fjiihful  ',o 

its  tires. 


430 


POPE. 


Tin-  vifiiin's  wish  without  her  fi-ars 

impart, 
Kxcii.-!.'  tin-  l)lush,  ami  pour  out  ;ill 

Ihi'  ht'iirt. 
Spj'fd  the  soft  iutercoui'sc  from  soul 

to  .soul. 
Auil  waft  a  siiiii  from  Imlus  to  the 

I'uif. 


[h'rom  An  Es.-mij  on  Man  ] 

.u.iy. 

Kni>\v   then   liiyx  If,    presuiiu-  not 

(ioil  to  M-au, 
The  propt-r  stuily  of  mankind  is  Man. 
I'iuc-fd  on  lliis  istlimus  of  u  middle 

slau-. 
A    being    darkly    wise,   and    rudely 

ureat ; 
With   too  mueh    knowledge   for    the 

sceplie  side, 
Willi  loo  much  weakness  for  the  sto- 

ir's  pride, 
He  hangs  belweeii;  in  doul»t  to  art  or 

rest ; 
In   doubt  to  deem  hinisi  If  a  god,  or 

beast ; 
In   loubt  his  mind  or  boily  lo  prefer; 
i;  ill   bill  lo  die.  and  reasoning  but 

to  err; 
Alike  in  igiuiiaiuv,  his  reason  such. 
Whether  he  thinks  too  litlle,  or  loo 

mueh ; 
Chaos  of   thought  and    passion,  all 

eonfiised 
Still  l>y  himself  abused,  or  disabuseil; 
Create  I  half  lo  rise,  and  half  lo  fall; 
(;reii;  lord  of  all  things,  vel  a  prev  lo 

all: 
.Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error 

burl-d : 
The    glorv.    jest,    ami    riddle    of    the 

world! 


[h'rnm  .111  I'.mxiii  on  Mnu.] 
SUIi.MISSloS     in     sr /•/./»//•     I(7.V- 

ni)M. 

WiiAi    if    t'lc    fool,    «»rdainet|    tlie 
duil   to  tread, 
( >r   h.'iiid,  to   toil,   aspire(l    lo   Ite   the 
he.t.l  ? 


What  if  the  heatl,  the  eye,  or  ear  re- 
pined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling 

mind  ? 
.Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame: 
Just  as  ab><urd,  lo  mourn   the  tasks 

or  pains. 
The    great    directing    Mind    of    All 

ordains. 
All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous 

whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  (.iod  the 

soul ; 
That,  changed   through   all,  and  yet 

in  all  lue  same, 
(ileal  in  the  earth,  iis  in  the  ethereal 

frame,  [  breeze. 

Warms  in  tlie  sun,  refreshes  in  the 
Clows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in 

the  trees; 
Lives     through     all     life,     extends 

through  all  e.xtenl, 
spreads  undivided,  operates  unsjient; 
IJreathes    in    our   soul,    informs   our 

mortal  part. 
As  tiill.  as  iierfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that 

mourns, 
.Vs  the  rajtt  s<'ra)ph.  thai  adores  and 

burns; 
To   Ilim   nt>  high,  m<>  low,  no  great. 

no  sm:dl ; 
ile   tills.    Me    bounds,  connects,  and 

e(|Uals  all. 
Cease    then,  nor    order    imperfec- 
tion name; 
<  )iir  jiroiier  bliss  depeiuls  on  what  wo 

blame. 
Know  thy  own  jioint:  this  kind,  this 

due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness.  Heaven  be- 
stows on  thee. 
Submit.—  In     tlds,    or    any    other 

sphere. 
•Seetire  lo  lie  as   blest  as  Ihou  canst 

bear: 
•Safe  In  the   lian<l    of  one   disjiosinR 

|ioucr. 
Or  In  the  niital,  or  tin;  mortal  hour. 
.Ml   n.iture    is   but    art,    unknown   lu 

the.-: 
.VII    ehaine.    ilireetioii,    which     thoil 

canst  not  8ee  ; 


POPE. 


43i 


All  discord,  harmony  not.  understood; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good: 
And,  sj)ite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's 

spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  Wliatever  is,  is 

right. 


[From  An  Essay  on  2^fan.] 

CHARITY,   GRADUALLY   PERVA- 
SIVE. 

God  loves  from  whole  to  parts; 

but  human  soul 
Must    rise    from    individual   to    the 

whole. 
Self-love    but    serves     the    virtuous 

mind  to  wake, 
As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful 

lake; 
The  centre  moved,  a  circle  straight 

succeeds, 
Another      still,    and    still    another 

spreads ; 
Friend,  parent,  neighbor,  first  it  will 

embrace ; 
Ills  country  next,  and  next  all  human 

race; 
Wide,  and  more  wide,  the  o'erflow- 

ings  of  the  mind 
Take    every  creature    in,    of    every 

kind; 
Earth  smiles  aroui\d,  with  boundless 

bounty  blest. 
And  heaven  beholds  its  image  in  his 

breast. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 
TRUE  NOIilLITY. 

IIoNoi;  and  shame  fnjui  no  condi- 
tion rise; 

Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the 
honor  lies. 

Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  dif- 
ference made. 

One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in 
brucade; 

The  coliblcr  ajironed,  and  the  parson 
gowned. 

The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch 
erowred. 


"What  differ  more  (you  ci-y)  than 

crown  and  cowl !  " 
I'll  tell  you,  friend!  a  wise  man  and 

a  fool. 
You'll  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts 

the  monk. 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be 

drunk, 
Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of 

it  the  fellow ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunello. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 

VIRTUE,     THE    SOLE     UNFAILING 

HAPPINESS. 

Know  then  this  truth  (enougli  for 

man  to  know), 
"  Virtue  alone  is  liappiness  below." 
Tlie  only  point  where  human  bliss 

stands  still. 
And  tastes  the  good  witliout  the  fall 

to  ill;  [ceives, 

\Vhere  only  merit  constant  pay  re- 
Is  blest  in  what  it  takes,  and  wliat  it 

gives ; 
The  joy  unequalled,  if  its  end  it  gain, 
And  if  it  lose,  attended  with  no  pain; 
Witliout  satiety,  though  e'er  so  blest. 
And  but  more  relished  as  the  more 

distressed: 
The  broadest  mirtli,  imfeeling  P'oiiy 

wears,  [tear>: 

Less  pleasing  far  than  Virtue's  very 
Good,  from  each  object,  from  each 

place  acquired. 
For  ever  exercised,  yet  never  tired ; 
Never  elated,  while  one  man's  op- 
pressed ; 
Never     dejected,     while     another's 

blessed ; 
And  where  no  wants,  no  wishes  car 

remain, 
Since  but  to  wisli  more  virtue,  is  iv 

gain. 
See  the  sole  bliss,  Heaven  could  on 

all  bestow! 
Which  win)  but  feels  can  taste,  but 

thinks  ran  know: 
Yet    poor  Willi    fortune,   and    witli 

learning  blind. 
The  bad  must   iniss;  the  good,  un- 
taught, will  find; 


432 


FOFE. 


Slave  to  no  sect,  who  takes  no  private 
road, 

IJut  looks  tliruii;,'li  nature  up  to  na- 
ture's ( iutl : 


As  men  of  brei'ding,  soiuetimes  men 

of  wit. 
To  avoid  ;,'reat  errors,  iiinsl  the  less 

eoniniil ; 


I'ursues  that  eliain  wiiiili  links  the  |  Ne;:!ecl  the   rules  each  verbal  critic 


iuuneiise  desii;n. 
Joins  heavtn  and   earth,  and  inorl-al 

and  divine; 
Sees   that   no    heini;    any    liliss    can 

know. 
l!ut  touches  some  above,  and  some 

below; 
Learns  from  this  union  of    the  risinij 

whole, 
The  first,  liist  purpose  of  I  lie  human 

soul : 


lays. 
For   not    to   know  some   trities  is  :» 
praise. 


[/•■/vim  An  Kg!tti>i  on  Criliciism.'] 
in  I. 


all  i)e;,'an. 
All  end,  in  /ore  o/'  (itnl  mid  h 
iiiiin. 


i'la  K   wit   is  nature    to    advantjigc 

dressed ; 
\nd  knows  where  faith,  law,  morals,  |  What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  .so 

well  expressed : 
"'    .Something,   wlidse   truth,  convinced 

at  siiiht  we  find. 
That  gives  us  baek  the  image  of  our 

miml. 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend 

the  light. 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly 

wit. 
For  works  may  have  more  wit    than 

does  them  good, 
As  bydies  perish  through  excess  of 

blood. 


[Friim  .tn  Emai/  on  f'rilirixm.] 

infill  Kt  s.irritK. 

l-'ii;sT  follow  Nature,  and  your  judg- 
ment frame 

l*y  her  just  >tantlard,  which  is  still 
the  same; 

I'nerring  Nature,  still  divinely  bright. 

One  clear,  unchangeil,  and  uiuversal 
light, 

IJfe,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all 
impart, 

.\t  once  the  source,  ami  end,  and 
test  of  art. 


{/•'mm  .ill  Hnsii;/ iin  Critirum.] 
.11  ST  .triUlMKNT. 

WiioKVKK  thinks  a  faidtless  piece 
to  see. 
Thinks  what   ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor 

e'er  shall  !»■. 

In   every    work    regard    the   writer's 

end. 
Sine*;  none  can  compass  more  than 

they  intend; 
.Vnd  if  the  means  be  just,  the  con- 

duii  true, 
A|iplaus4».  in  Hpil«;  of  trivial  faults,  Is 

due. 


[From  An  Kutaii  on  (yitirinm.] 

j:\</:ssnK  I'Uaisf.   on  hi.ame. 

A\<)ii»    extremes;    and    shun     the 

fault  of  such 
Who  still  are  pleased  too  Utile  oi-  too 

mucli. 
At  every  trill*'  se«)rn  to  Uik*-  offenci-. 
That   always   sho\ss   great     pride    or 

little  sens*-: 
Those   heails.    as  stomachs,   are    not 

sur*'  the  best 
Willi  li  M.'iuseate  all,  and  nothing  can 

digest. 
Vet  lei  not  ea*h  gay  turn  thy  nqiture 

mo\e: 
F(<r  fools  adiiure.  but  nnn  of  sens** 

api.n.ve: 
As     things     seem     l.iige    which    w*> 

through   mist  di'si-ry, 
lJulm»iH  is  ever  a|)i  l<i  ni.iL'nify. 


PRESCOTT. 


433 


I 


THE    UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Fatiieu  of  all !  in  cveiy  age, 

In  every  cliiuc  adored. 
By  saint,  by  savaye,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  under- 
stood. 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  tliis,  that  Thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate. 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate. 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,   teach   me   more  than  hell  to 
shun, 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What     blessings    Thy    free    bounty 
gives. 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives ; 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

i)r  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man. 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 


Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hanu 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  Thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  Thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way ! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To-'hide  the  fault  I  see: 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath; 

Oh,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go. 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death! 

This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  ttiy  lot: 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  spaee, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea.  skies! 

One  chorus  let  all  Being  raise! 
All  Nature's  incense  rise  I 


Mary  N.  Prescott. 


THE   OLD  STORY. 

By  the  pleasant  paths  we  know 
All  familiar  flowers  would  grow, 

I'hough  we  two  were  gone; 
Moon  iuid  stars  would  rise  and  set. 
Dawn  the  laggard  night  forget, 

And  the  world  move  on. 

Spring  would  carol  through  the  wood. 
Life  be  counted  sweet  and  good. 
Winter    stonns    would    prove    their 

While  the  seasons  sped;       | might. 
Winter  frosts  make  l)old  to  bite, 

t'louds  Yiii  overhead. 


Still  llie  sunset  lights  would  glow, 
Still  the  heaven-appointed  bow 

In  its  place  be  hung; 
Not  one  flower  the  less  would  bloom. 
Though  we  two  had  met  our  doom, 

No  song  less  be  sung. 

Other  lovers  through  the  dew 
WouM  go,  loitering,  two  and  two, 

^Vllen  the  day  was  done; 
Lii)s  would  pass  the  kiss  divine. 
Hearts   would    beat   like    yours  and 
mine,  — 

Hearts  that  beat  as  one. 


434 


PliEtiTON. 


TO-DA  Y. 

T<>-i)AY  the  sunshine  freely  sliDwers 

Its  benediction  where  we  staml; 
There's    not   a   passing    cloud    that 
lowers 
Above  this  pleasant  summer  land; 
Tlien  let's  not  waste  the  sweet  to- 
day, — 
To-ujorrow,  who  can  say  ? 

Perhaps,  to-morrow  we  may  be. — 
Alas!  alas!  the  thought  is  pain, — 

As  far  apart  as  sky  aiul  sea. 
Sundered  to  nicet  no  more  again; 

Then   let   us   clasp    thee,   sweet   to- 
day. — 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

The  daylight  fades;  a  piiride   dream 
Of  twilight  hovers  overhead, 


While  all  the  trembling  stars  but  seem 
Like  sad  tears  yet  luishfd ; 

Oh,  sweet  to-«lay.  so  soon  away! 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 


ASLEEP. 


Sot'NT)  asleep!  no  sigh  can  reach 
llini     who     dreams     the     lu-aveiily 

dream; 
No  to-morrow's  silver  speech 
Wake  him  with  an  earthly  theme. 
.Suiiiiuer  rains,  ndi-nllfssly. 
I'atler  wlicre  his  head  doth  lie. 
'rhtTf  tin-  wild  mstaTid  thr  Imikc 
All  their  Muiinier  leisure  take. 
Violets,  blinded  by  the  dew, 
I'ei-funie  lend  to  the  sad  rue. 
Till  the  day  break  fair  and  clear, 
And  no  shadow  doth  appear. 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston. 


EQlinHSE. 

JrsT  when  we  think  we've  fixed  the 
golden  mean.  — 
The   dianinnd   point,  on  which  to 

balaiiee  fair 
Life  an<l  life's  lofty  issues,  weigh- 
ing there. 
With  fraetional  precision,  close  and 

keen. 
Thonghl.  motive,  word  and  ili  cd, — 
there  comes  between 
Some  wayward  circinnsUincc,  some 

jostling  care, 
Some  temjier's  fret,  some  mood's 
unwise  despair. 
To  mar  the  eijiiilibrium,  tmforeseen, 
And  spoil  our  nice  .uljustmi-nt  I  — 
Ilappv  he. 
Whose    soul's    calm    e<|Ulpoise    can 
know  no  jar. 
IJi'caiiMo  the  unMavering  haml  Ihiit 
holds  tiie  scales. 
Is  the  same  hand  that  weighed  eacdi 
Ht«-adf.\sl  star.  — 
Is  tlie  same  band  that  on  tlie  sa- 
cred iree  I  nails! 
Uurc,  for  Ills  Hake,  the  anguish  of  the 


OUUS. 

Most  ])erfect  attribute  of  love,  thai 
knows 
No   separate   self,  —  no   conscious 

luiui  nor  thine  ; 
Hut  mystic  union,  closer,  more  di- 
vine I  close. 
Than  wedded  soul  and  body  can  dis- 
\o  Hush  of  pleasure  on  thy  forehea«l 

glows. 
No  mist  of  fi-eling  in  thine  eyes  can 
shine, 
N(»  faintest  pain  surprise  thee,  but 
then'  goes 
The     lightning-spark     along    love's 
\  iewless  line. 
Hearing   with   instant  message  to 
my  heart, 
Hesi»onsive     recognition.      .Suns     or 
showers 
May   c<ime    between   us;    silcncoa 
may  i)art ; 
The  rusldng   world    know   not.    nor 

care  to  know;  — 
Vet    back    and    forth     the    Hashing 
secret'^  H<», 
Whose  sacred,  only  si'same  i»,  ourn  1 


PRESTON. 


435 


NATURE'S   LESSON. 

Pain  is  no  longer  pain  when  it  is 
past; 
And  what  is  all  llu-  mirth  of  yes- 
terday, 
More  than   the  yester    flush    that 
paled  away, 
Leaving  no  trace  across  the  landscape 
cast 
Whereby    to    prove    its    presence 
there  ?    The  blast 
'That  bowed  the  knotteii  oak  beneath 

its  sway. 
And  rent  the  lissome  a^ii,  the  forest 
may 
Take  heed  of  longer,  since  strewn 
leaves  outlast 
Strewn  sunbeams  even.    Be  thou  like 
Nature  then, 
Calmly  receptive  of  *11  sweet  de- 
lights. 
The  while  they  soothe  rnd  strengthen 
thee:  antl  when 
The  wrench   of   tr'.al   comes   with 
swirl  and  strain. 
Think  of  the  still  progressive  days 
and  nights. 
That  blot  with  *qual  sweep,  both 
joy  and  pain. 


Been    frustrate,  had    not    Patience 
stood  between, 
Divinely  meek.    And  let  us  learn 
that  man. 
Toiling,  enduring,  pleading,  —  calm, 
serene. 
For  those  who  scorn  and  slight,  is 
likest  God. 


GOD'S  PATIENCE. 

Of  all  the  attributes  whose  starry 
rays 
Converge  and  centre  in  one  focal 

light 
Of  luminous  glory  such  as  angels' 
sight 
Can  only  look  on  with  a  blenched 
amaze. 
None  crowns  the  brow  of  God  with 
purer  blaze. 
Nor  lifts  His  grandeur  to  more  infi- 
nite height, 
Than  His  cxhaustless  patience.     Let 

us  praise 
With  wondering  hearts,  this  strangest 
tenderest  grace. 
Remembering,  awe-struck,  that  the 
avenging  rod 
Of  justice  must  have  fallen,  and  mer- 
cy's plan 


THE  SHADOW. 

It  comes  betwixt  me  and  the  ame- 
thyst 
Of    you    far    mountain's    billowT 
range;  —  the  sky. 

Mild. with   sun-setting  calmness,  to 
my  eye 
Is  curtained  ever  by  its  haimting 
mist; 

And    oftentimes    when    some    dear 
brow  I've  kissed. 

My  lips  grow  tremulous  as  it  sweeps 
me  by. 

With  stress  of  overmastering  agony 
That  faith  and  reason  all  in  vain 
resist. 

It  blurs  my  fairest  books;  it  dims  the 
page 
Of  the  divinest  lore;   and  on  my 
tongue 

The     broken    prayer    that    inward 
strength  would  crave. 

Dissolves  in  sobs  no  soothing  can  as- 
suage ; 
And  this  penumbral  gloom,— this 
heart-cloud  (lung 

Aromid  me  is,  the  memory  of  a  grave. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S   GRAVE. 

A  SIMPLE,  sodded  mound  of  earth. 

Without  a  line  above  it; 
With  only  daily  votive  tlowers 

To  prove  that  any  love  it: 
The  token  flag  that  silently 

Each  breeze's  visit  iuunl)ers. 
Alone  keeps  martial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreandess  slumbers. 

No   name  ?  —  no   record  ?     Ask   the 
world : 
The  world  has  read  his  story :  — 


136 


PRESTON. 


Jf  all  Its  annals  can  unfold 

A  i)n>n<l«T  tall'  of  ijlory; 
If  evt-r  nicnly  liinuan  litV 

Ilatli  laiii^lit  diviner  moral.  — 
If  ever  roiuid  a  wortliier  brow 

Was  twiiK'd  a  purer  laurel  I 

A  twelvemonth  only,  since  his  sword 

Went  tlashint:  through  the  battle, — 
A  twelvemoiuli  only,  since  his  ear 

Heani  war's  last  deadly  rattle,  — 
And  yet,  have  couiuless  pilgrim  feet 

'i'he  pilgrim's  guerdon  jiaid  him, 
And  weeping  w(»nien  come  to  see 

The   i>lace    where    they    have   laid 
him. 

Contending  annies  l)ring  in  turn, 

Their  meed  of  praise  or  honor. 
And  I'alias  iiere  has  pause<l  to  bind 

Tlie  cyiiress-wreaili  ui)on  her: 
It  seems  a  holy  sei)ulehre. 

Whose  sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe  — 

of  Ciiristiaii  or  of  pagan. 

But  who  sh;Ul   weigh  the  wordless 
grief 

That  leaves  in  tears  its  traces, 
As  roimd  Ibi'ir  leader  <n>wd  again 

Th(!  bronzed  ami  vet*  ran  faces  ? 
The   "Old    Urigade"    he    loved    so 

W.'ll  — 

The   mountain    men,    who    bound 
him 
With  bays  of  their  own  winning,  ere 
A  tardier  fame  had  <iowiied  him; 

Tlie  legions  who  had  .seen  his  glance 

.Across  tlie  carnage  (lashing 
And   thrilled    to    CiiU-h    his    ringing 
"  rfiitr<ir  " 

Above  the  volley  crashing;  — 
Who  ofl  bad  w  atelxil  the  lifted  band, 

'i'lie  inward  trust  betraying. 
Anil  felt  tbi'ir  <"ounige  grow  sublime. 

While  they  beheld  him  praying! 

hare  fame!  nire  name! —  If  ehanted 
I 'raise, 

\Viili  all  the  world  to  lis(«'n.  — 
If  iiriiji-  that  swells  a  n.-ition's  soul,  — 

if  foeinen'.i  tears  that  glisten,  — 


If  pilgrim's  shrining  love,  —  if  grief 
Which  naught  may  soothe  or 
sever.  — 

If  titr.st  can  consecrate, — this  spot 
Is  sacred  ground  forever! 


THERE- LL   LOME  A  DAi. 

Tueue'm.  come   a   day  when   the 
supremest  splendor 
Of  earth,  or  sky,  or  sea, 
Whate'er  their  miracles,  sublime  or 
tender. 
Will  wake  no  joy  in  me. 

There'll  come  a  day  when  all  the  as- 
piration. 
Now  with  such-fervor  fraught, 
As  lifts  to  heights  of  bre.ithless  exal- 
tation. 
Will  .seem  a  thing  of  naught. 

There'll  come  a  day  when    riches, 
honor,  glory. 
Music  and  song  and  art. 
Will  look  like  puppets  in  a  wom-ouf 
story, 
Where  each  has  jdayed  his  i)art. 

There'll   come   a   day    when   human 
love,  the  sweetest 
(Jift  that  includes  the  whole 
Of   fJod's   graiiil  giving  —  sovertdgn- 
est,  eomiiletest  — 
.Shall  fail  to  till  my  sold. 

Tln're'll  come  a  day  —  1  w  ill  not  care 
how  passes 
The  clouil  across  my  sight. 
If  oidy,  lark-like,  from  earth's  nested 
gnisses. 
I  spring  to  meet  its  light. 


/•///     7)'A'.(.V.Vr   or   MOOD. 
I.     MiUCM.NO. 

It    Is    enough:    I    feel,    this   golden 

morn. 

.\h  if  ;i  r<iyal  aii]>anago  w<>re  ndne. 

Tbroiigb  SaiMn>'s  (lueenly  warrant 

of  divine  |l>orn, 

Investiture.     What  princess,  palace- 


PIUNGLE. 


437 


Hath  right  of  rapture  more,  when 
skies  adorn 
rhcmselves  so  grandly;    when    the 

inouiilains  shine 
Transfigured;    when  the   air    exalts 
like  wine; 
When  pearl}-  puii)les  steep  the  yel- 
lowing corn  ? 
So  satisfied  witli  all  the  goodliness 
Of  God's  good  world, — my  being 
to  its  brim 
Surcharged    with  utter  thankfulness 
no  less  Iglad 

Than  bliss  of   beauty,  passionaudy 
Through  rush  of  tears  that  leaves  the 
landscape  dim. — 
"  Who  dares,"   1  say,  "in  such  a 
worlvl  be  sad  ?  " 

11.    NIGUT. 

I  PKEss  my  cheek  against  the  win- 
dow-pane. 
And   gaze  abroad    into  the  blank, 
black  space 


Where  earth  and  sky  no  more  have 
any  place, 
Wiped  from  existence  by  the  expimg- 
ing  rain; 
And  as  1  hear  the  worried  winds 
complain, 
A  darkness,   darker  than  the  miik 

A\hose  trace 
Invades  the  curtained  room,  is  on  my 
face, 
Beneath  which,  life  and  life's  best 
ends  seem  vain. 
My    swelling      aspirations    viewless 
sink 
As   yon  cloud-blotted  hUls:  hopes 
^hat  shone  bright 
As  planets  yester-eve,  like  them  to- 
night 
.\ le  gulfed,  the  impenetrable  mists 
before : 
'•()   weary    world!"     I  cry,    "how 
dare  1  think 
Thou  hast  for  me  one  gleam  of 
gladness  more  ?  " 


Thomas  Pringle. 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Afar  in  the  desert  1  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by 

my  side. 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul 

o'ercast. 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to 

the  past; 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regret- 
ful tears. 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former 

years ; 
And    shadows   of    things    Ibat   have 

long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of 

the  dead; 
Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished 

too  sijou; 
Day-dreams  that  departed   ere  man- 

hooil's  noon;  |i''"ft ; 

Attachments   by    fate    or   falsehood 
Companions    of    early   days   lost   or 

left  — 


An<l  my  native  land  —  whose  magi- 
cal name 

Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame; 

The  home  of  my  childhood:  the 
haunts  of  my  prime: 

All  the  T«ssions  and  scenes  of  that 
raptiu'ous  lime 

When  the  feelings  were  young,  and 
the  world  was  new. 

Tike  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  un- 
folding to  view; 

Ah  —  all  now  f'or.saken  —  forgotten  — 
foregone!  [none  — 

And  I  —  a  lone  exile  remembered  ot 

My  high  aims  ;d)andoned  —  my  good 
acis  iiiulone  — 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no 
stranger  may  scan. 

I  fly  to  the  <lesert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  deseit  i  love  to  ride, 
With   liie   silent  bush-boy  alone  bj 
my  side, 


438 


FBINGLE. 


When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  weaii- 
soint'  lift', 

With  its  sceiK's  of  oppivjoiuu,  cor- 
ruption, and  stritV  — 

The  proud  man's  frown,  uud  the  base 
man's  fear-- 

The  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sutfcr- 
er's  tear  — 

And  malice,  and  meanness,  and 
falsehood  and  folly, 

IJispost!  me  to  miu^ing  and  dark  mel- 
ancholy; 

VVhen  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my 
thouglils  arc  high. 

And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bond- 
man's sigh  — 

Oh  I  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy 
and  pride. 

Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride! 

There  is  rai)turc  to  vault  on  the 
champing  steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's 
speed. 

With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in 
my  hand  — 

The  only  law  of  the  desert  land  I 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  l)tish-boy  alone  by  my 

side. 
Away  —  away  from  the  dwellings  of 

men, 
liy  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buf- 

fiilo'.s  glen; 
By  valleys   remote   where  the  oriby 

pla>  s 
Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the 

hailelteest  gniZe, 

And   the  kiKlii  and  eland   unhiuited 

recline 
Hy  the  skirts  nf  gniy  forest  o'erhung 

with  wild  vine  I 
Where  the  eli-pliant  bnjwses  at  peace 

in  his  wood. 
And  til'-  river-horse  gambols  luiscared 

in  Mie  tldod. 
And  the  uiighly  rhiniM-eros  wallows 

at  will 
in   the   fen    when-    the   wild   ass   is 

drinking  his  (ill. 

Afar  In  lli.-  d.sert  I  love  to  ride, 
V\  itii  the  silent  biuh-lxiy  alouo  by  my 
•ide, 


O'er  the  brown   karroo,   where  the 

bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  soimdsplain- 

tively ; 
And    the    timorous    quaggu's   shrill 

whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight 

gray ; 
^\  here  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his 

mane, 
\\ith  wikl  hoof  scoiuing  the  desolato 

plain; 
And  the  (leet-footcd  ostrich  over  the 

waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels 

in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest. 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped 

their  nest. 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's 

view 
In  tlie  pathless  depths  of  the  parched 

karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by 

my  side. 
Away  —  away  — in   the  wilderness 

vast, 
Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath 

never  passed. 
And  the  (juivered  Corainia  or  IJech- 

uan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving 

clan ; 
A  region  of  emiitiness,  howling  and 

drear. 
Which    man    hath   abandoned   froin 

famine  and  fear; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  liziiixl  in- 
habit aloni'. 
With  tlie  twilight  bat  from  t hi" yawn 

ing  stone; 
Where   grass,    nor   herb,    nor  sbriii) 

takes  root. 
Save   poisonous   thorns    that    ]>ier<e 

llle  foot  : 

And  the  l)ilter-melon.  for  food  and 

drink. 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt-lake's 

brink; 
\  region  of  drought,  where  no  river 

gll.le,. 

Nor  rlitpling  brook  with  osiered  sides.' 


PRIOR. 


439 


Where     sedgy    pool,    nor    bubbling 

fount, 
>('or  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye; 
But  tlie  barren  earth  and  the  burning 

sky,  [round, 

A.nd  the  blank  horizon,  rounl  and 
Spread  —  void    of    living    sight    or 

sound. 

Aj3d    here,    wliile    the    night-winds 
round  me  sigh, 


And  the  stars  turn  bright  in  the  mid 

night  sky. 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone. 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave,  alone, 
"A  still  small  voice"  comes  ttuough 

the  wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful 

child). 
Which   banishes  bitterness,    wrath, 

and  fear,  — 
Saying  —  Man  is  distant,  but  Grod  ia 

near! 


Matthew  Prior. 


[From  Solomon.] 
THE    WISE  Mjy  ly  DARKNESS, 

Hai'py  the  mortal  man,  who  now  at 
last 

Has  through  the  doleful  vale  of  mis- 
ery passed ; 

Who  to  his  destined  stage  has  carried 
on 

The  tedious  load,  and  laid  his  bur- 
dens down ; 

Whom  the  cut  brass  or  mounded  mar- 
ble shows 

Victor  o'er  life  and  all  her  train  of 
woes. 

He  happier  yet,  who,  privileged  by 
fate 

To  shorter  labor,  and  a  lighter 
weight. 

Received  but  yesterday  the  gift  of 
breath. 

Ordered  to-morrow  to  return  to 
death. 

uut  oh !  beyond  description,  happiest 
he 

Who  ne'er  must  roll  on  life's  tiunul- 
tuous  soa ; 

Who  with  blessed  freedom  from  the 
general  doom 

Exempt,  nnist  never  force  the  teem- 
iug^  womb, 


Nor  see  the  sun,  nor  sink  into  the 

tomb. 
Who  breathes  must  suffer;  and  who 

thinks  must  mourn; 
And  he  alone  is  blest  who  ne'er  was 

born. 


[From  Solomon.] 
THE    WISE  MAN  IN  LIGHT. 

Supreme,  all-wise,  eternal  Poten- 
tate! 

Sole  Author,  sole  Dispenser  of  our 
fate! 

Enthroned  in  light  and  immor- 
tality! 

Whom  no  man  fully  sees,  and  none 
can  see! 

Original  of  beings!  Power  divine! 

Since  that  1  live,  and  that  I  think,  is 
Thine; 

Benign  Creator,  let  Thy  plastic  hand 

Dispose  its  own  effect.  Let  Thy  com- 
mand 

Restore,  great  Father,  Thy  instructed 
son; 

And  in  my  act,  may  Thy  great  will 
be  done! 


140 


pnucTKR. 


Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


ONE  BY   ONE. 

Onk  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 
Ono  by  one  the  nionicnts  fall; 

Some  are  couiiui,',  some  are  going, 
Ho  not  strive  to  grasp  them  alL 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each, 

l,et  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 
Learn   thou   lirst  what  these  can 
teach. 

One  by  one  (bright  gifts  from  Heav- 
en) 

Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below; 
Take  them  readily  when  given, 

lieady  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall    meet 
tliee. 

Do  not  fear  an  annbd  band ; 
One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee; 

Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow; 

Sec  liow  small  each  moment's  pain. 
God  will  iielj)  thee  for  to-morrow, 

So  eftcli  day  begin  again. 

Kverj'  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 
Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear; 

Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy, 
\Vh<»n  each  gem  is  set  with  care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting. 
Or  for  i)assing  hours  despond; 

Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting. 
Look  too  i-agcrly  l)eyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  fowl's  token, 
I'ii-arhing  beiivt'U  ;  but  one  by  one 

Take  them,  list  lln'  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgriniagi-  be  done. 


jrixii:  suT. 

JlTiniK  noi ;  the  workings  of  his  brain 
And  of  hiH  heart  thou  cauBt  not 
mm:; 


What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a  stain. 

In  Cod's  i)ure  light  may  only  be 
A  scar,  brought  from  some  well-won 

field, 
^Vliere  tliou  wouldst  only  faint  and 

yield. 

The  look,  the  air,  that  frets  thy  sight. 
May  be  a  token,  that  below 

The  soul  has  closed  in  dea<lly  hght 
With  some  infernal  tiery  foe. 

Whosi-  glance  would  scorch  thy  smil- 
ing grace. 

And  cast  thee  shuddering  on  thy  face! 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  desjiise, — 
May  he  the  angel's  slackene<l  hand 

Has  sutTereil  it.  tliat  he  may  rise 
And  take  a  tinner,  surer  stand ; 

Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things. 

May    henceforth    leam    to    use    his 
wings. 

And  judge  none  lost;  but  wait  and 
.see. 
With  lioi>eful  I'ity,  not  disdain; 
The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 

The     measure    of    the    height    of 
pai  n 
And  love  and  glorj-  that  may  raise 
This  Moul  to  God  in  ufter  days! 


TIUAKFULAKSS. 


Mv 


(ioi),  I   thank  Thee  who  hast 
made 

Tlie  earth  so  bright; 
So  full  of  spieuilor  and  of  joy, 

lieauty  aixl  liudil ; 
So  many  glori(»us  things  are  herp, 

Noble  and  right! 

1  thank  Thee,  too,  that  Thou  bast 
made 

.loy  to  .ilMund; 
So  many  gentle  ilioughts  and  deeds 

('in'ling  us  round. 
That  in  the  darkest  spot  of  earth 

Sonic  love  is  found. 


PROCTER. 


441 


1  thank  Thee  more  that  all  our  joy 

Is  touched  with  pain; 
That  shadows  fall  on  brightest  hours; 

That  thorns  remain; 
So  that  earth's    bliss    may  be    our 
guide, 

And  not  our  chain. 

For  Thou  who  knowest,  Lord,  ho^\ 
soon 

Our  weak  heart  clings, 
Hast  given  us  JDy.s,  tender  and  true, 

Yet  all  wi!h  wings, 
So  that  we  sei ,  gleaming  on  high. 

Diviner  things  I 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast 
kept 

The  best  in  store; 
We  have  enough,  yet  not  too  much 

To  long  for  more : 
V  yearning  for  a  deeper  peace, 

Not  known  before. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  here  our 
souls 

Though  amply  blest. 
Can  never  finl.  although  they  seek, 

A  perfect,  rest, — 
Vor  ever  shall,  imlil  they  lean 

On  Jesus'  breast! 


A  LOST  CHORD. 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ, 
I  was  weary  untl  ill  at  ease, 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  playing. 
Or  what  I  was  dreaniiiig  tlien; 

But  I  stnick  one  chord  of  nni-^ic. 
Like  the  sound  of  a  great  Amen. 

It  flooded  ♦he  crimson  twilight. 
Like  the  close  of  an  mgel's  psalm, 

iVnd  it  lay  on  my  fevereij  spirit 
With  a  touch  of  infinite  calm. 

It  quieted  jiaiii  and  sorrow, 
Like  love  overcoming  strife; 

t  seemed  the  hannonious  echo 
T^Yom  onr  disc(ndant  life. 


It  linked  all  perplexed  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  peace. 
And  trembled  away  into  silence 

As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 
That  ont'  lost  chord  divine. 

Thai  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ 
And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  tliat  chord  again, 

It  may  be  thai  only  in  heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


TOO  LATE. 

Hush!  speak  low;  tread  softly; 

Draw  the  sheet  aside;  — 
Yes,  she  does  look  peaceful; 

With  that  smile  she  died. 

Yet  stern  want  and  sorrow 

Even  now  you  trace 
On  the  wan,  worn  features 

Of  the  still  white  face. 

Restless,  helpless,  hopeless. 
Was  her  bitter  part;  — 

Now, —  how  still  the  violets 
Lie  upon  her  heart! 

She  who  toiled  and  labored 

For  her  daily  bread ; 
See  the  velvet  hangings 

Of  this  stately  bed. 

Yes,  they  did  forgive  her; 

Brought  her  home  at  last; 
Strove  to  cover  over 

Their  relentless  past. 

Ah,  they  would  have  given 
Wealth,  and  home,  and  pride 

To  see  her  just  look  happy 
Once  before  she  died! 

Then'  strove  hard  to  please  her. 

Hut,  when  death  is  near. 
All  you  know  is  deadened, 

Hope,  and  joy,  and  fear. 


442 


PROCTER. 


And  besides,  one  sorrow 
Di'opcr  still. —  ono  pain 

Was  bi'yond  tlicm"  healing 
Came  to-<lay,—  in  vain! 

If  she  had  but  lingered 
Just  a  few  hours  more; 

Or  had  this  letter  reached  her 
Just  one  day  before! 

I  can  almost  pity 

Even  him  to-*lay; 
Though  he  let  this  anguish 

Eat  her  heart  away. 

Yet  she  never  blamed  liim:  — 
One  (lay  you  shall  know 

How  this  sorrow  happened; 
It  was  long  ago. 

I  have  read  the  letter; 

Many  a  weary  year. 
For  one  word  siie  liungered. — 

There  are  thousands  here. 

If  she  roidd  but  hear  it, 
Coidd  but  understand; 

See. —  I  put  the  letter 
In  her  cold  white  hand. 

Even  these  wonls,  so  longed  for, 

Do  u(jI  stir  her  rest; 
Will.  1  shoultl  not  murmur, 

For  God  judges  best. 

She  needs  no  more  pity, — 

Hut  I  mourn  his  fate, 
Wlien  he  In-ars  his  letter 

Came  a  day  loo  late. 


(L K.I .V.S7 AV;    Finns. 

Lkt  Ihy  gold  be  ca.st  In  tlie  furnace. 

Thy  red  gold,  preeioiis  und  bright, 
l)o  not  f«'ar  the  hungry  lire. 

With  its  eaverii**  of  burning  light; 
And  thy  n'^ld  shall  return  more  pre- 
cioUM, 

Free  from  even.'  spot  and  slain; 
For  goM  MHHi  bc"iri<'i|  by  lir.-, 

A»  a  heart  must  be  tried  by  j)aiu! 


In  the  cruel  fire  of  sorrow, 

( 'ast  thy  heait,  do  not  faint  or  wail; 
Let  thy  hand  be  tirm  ami  steady, 

Do  not  let  Ihy  si)irit  (juail: 
But  wait  till  the  trial  is  over. 

And  take  thy  heart  again; 
For  as  gold  is  tried  by  lire, 

So  a  heart  must  be  tried  by  pain  I 

I  shall  know  by  the  gleam  and  glitter 

Uf  tlu'  golden  chain  you  wear. 
By  your  heart's  calm  strength  in  lov- 
ing. 

Of  the  tire  they  have  had  to  bear. 
Beat  on.  true  heart,  forever; 

Shine  bright,  strong  golden  chain; 
And  bless  the  cleansing  fire. 

And  the  furnace  of  living  painl 


.-J    WOyTAN'S  QUESTION. 

Bekoiie  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 
Or  place  my  hantl  in  thine. 

Before  I  let  tliy  future  give 
Color  and  form  to  mine. 

Before  I  i)eril  all  for  thee, 
(.Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

\  shadow  of  regret: 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past 

That  holds  thy  snirit  yet? 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 

As     that    which   1   can   pledge 
thee  ? 

Does 


to 


there     within     thy     dinnnest 
dreams 
A  possible  future  shine. 
Wherein   thy   life  could    henceforth 
breathe. 
Untouched,  unshared  liy  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  <M»st, 

Oh,  tell  u"ie  before  all  is  lost. 

Look  deejier  Still.     If  ihou  canst  fee) 

Within  thy  inmost  soul. 
That  Ibou  hast  kept  a  portion  back 

While  I  have  staked  (be  whole; 
Let  MO  false  jiity  si)are  the  blow, 

But  in  true  mercv  tell  me  .so. 


PROCTER. 


443 


iS  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 
Speak  now, —  lest  at  some  future  day 

My  whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 
The  demon-spirit  (Change, 

Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 
On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 

It  may  not  be  thy  faidt  alone, — 
But  shield   my   heart   against  thy 
own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one 
day 
And  answer  to  my  claim, 
Taat  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake, 

Not  thou, —  hail  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus ;  but 
thou 
Wilt  siirely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Na^} ,  answer  not, —  I  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  too  late ; 

Yet  1  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 
So,  comfort  thee,  my  fate, — 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall, — 
Remember,  I  would  risk  it  alll 


INCOMPL  E  TEN'ESS. 

Nothing  resting  in  its  own  complete- 
ness 

Can  have  worth  or  beauty :  but  alone 

IJecause  it  leads  and  tends  to  farther 
sweetness. 

Fuller,  higher,  deeper  than  its  own. 

Spring's  real  glory  dwells  not  in  the 

meaning, 
Gracious  though  it  be,  of  her  blue 

hours ; 
Bat  is  hidden  in  her  tender  leaning 
To  the  summer's   richer  wealth  of 

flowers. 

Dawn  is  fair,  because  the  mists  fade 

slowly 
Into  day.   which    floods    the   world 

with  light; 


Twilight's  mystery  is  so  sweet  and 

holy 
Just  because  it  ends  in  starry  night. 

Childhood's       smiles       unconscious 

graces  borrow 
From  strife,  that  in  a  far-off  future 

lies; 
And  angel  glances  (veiled  now  by 

life's  sorrow) 
Draw  our  hearts  to   some    beloved 

eyes. 

Life  is  only  bright  when  it  proceedeth 
Towards  a  truer,  deeper  life  above ; 
1 1  uman  lov*  is  sweetest  when  it  lead- 

eth 
To  a  more  divine  and  perfefit  love. 

Learn  the  mystery  of  progression 
duly: 

Do  not  call  each  glorious  change,  de- 
cay; 

But  know  we  only  hold  our  treasures 
truly, 

When  it  seems  as  if  they  passed 
away. 

Nor  dare  to  blame  God's  gifts  for  in- 
completeness ; 

In  that  want  their  beauty  lies :  they 
roll 

Towards  some  infinite  depth  of  love 
and  sweetness, 

Bearing  onward  man's  reluctant 
soul. 


STRIVE,    WAIT,  AND  PRAY. 

Strive  :  yet  I  do  not  promise 

The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will   not  fade  when    you  think  to 
grasp  it. 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away; 
But  another  and  holier  treasure. 

You  would  now  perchance  disdain 
Will  come  when  jour  toil  is  over. 

And  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wait;  yet  I  do  not  tell  you 
The  hour  you  long  for  now 

Will  not  come  with  its  radiance  van- 
ished. 
And  a  shadow  upon  its  brow; 


444 


PROCTER. 


Yot  far  throu-ili  the  iiiisiy  future, 
Willi  a  .Town  of  .■^tany  lii^'lit, 

Au  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 
Is  winging  her  silent  flight. 

Pray;  though  the  gift  you  ask  fov 
May  never  comfort  yoiu"  fears, 


May  never  repay  your  pleading. 
Yet      piuy,    and     with     liopefu 
teal's; 

An  answiT,  not  that  you  lonx  tor, 
But  iliviner,  will  oonie  oiif  day; 

Your  i-yes  are  too  dim  to  so   it, 
Ytt  strive,  and  wait,  ami  pray. 


Bryan  Waller  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall). 


LIFE. 

We  are  l)om;  we  laugh;  we  weep; 

We  love;  we  droop;  we  die! 
Ah !  when-fore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do" we  live  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  thai  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  1 ! 

M  hy  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Wiiy  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Swe«!t  tlioughts  that  <pii«-kly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die? 

We  toil  —  through  pain  and  wrong; 

We  fight  — and  fly; 
Wi'love;    we    lose;    and    then,    ere 
long, 

Stone-di-ad  we  lie. 
O  Life!  Is  all  thy  song! 

"  Endure  and  —  die?" 


A  I'KTITIOS   TO    TIME. 

Tot'cii  US  gently,  Time! 

Let  us  (^lide  adown  tliy  str(>am 
(Jenily — as  we  <sonieliiiies  glide 

Througii  a  (piiet  dream! 
llumblt!  v<jya;;ers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  eliildnii  thre( 
(Due  is  lost  —  an  angel.  \\i^\ 
T<»  the  azure'overhead !) 

Tnueh  us  gently.  Time! 

Wi''ve  not  proud  nor  so.n  mi"  "  m 
t>ur  ambiijoii,  ..in-  eonteii 

Lies  in  nimple  tidngs. 


Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
O'er  life's  dim  unsounded  sea. 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime; 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 


LOVE  ME  IF  I  LIVE. 

LovF.  me  if  I  live! 

Love  me  if  I  die! 
What  to  me  is  life  or  death. 

So  that  thou  be  nigh  ? 

Once  I  loved  thee  rich, 
N()W  I  love  thee  poor; 

Ah!  what  is  there  1  could  not 
I'nr  thy  sake  endure  ? 

Kiss  me  for  my  love! 

I'ay  me  for  my  jwiin! 
Come!  and  murnnir  in  my  ear 

How  thou  lov'st  again! 


TITE  SBA. 

TiiF,  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  .sea! 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free! 
Willioiit  a  mark,  withrut  a  bound. 
It  ruiineih    the  earth's  wide  regions 

round ! 
It  plays  with  the  clourls;  it  mocks  the 

skies ; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea !     I'm  on  the  sea! 

I  am  where  I  would  ev<T  be; 

Willi   the  blue   above,    and   Ibe    blue 

below. 
And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go. 


PROCTER. 


445 


I 


If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake 

the  deep, 
What  matter  ?  /  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh,  ItDV  I  love  to  ride 

On  the  tierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide. 

When  every  miul  wave  drowns  the 

moon. 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  iiow  goetli  the  world  below. 
And  why  the  sou' west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore. 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and 

more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billo^\'J• 

breast,  [nest; 

Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  motlier"s 
And  a  mo!,her  she  wnn,  and  is,  to  me; 
For  1  was  born  on  the  open  sea! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the 
morn. 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born ; 

And  the  wliale  it  whistled,  the  por- 
poise rolled, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs 
of  gold;  [wild 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry 

As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child ! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and 

strife. 
Full  fifty  sinnmers.  a  sailor's  life. 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to 

range. 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for 

change ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
fhall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded 

sea! 


HISTORY  OF  A  LIFE. 

Day  dawned: — within  a  curtained 

room, 
Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 

Day  closed;  —  a  cliild  had  seen    the 

liLChl ; 
But,  for  the  hidy  fair  and  bright. 
She  lested  in  undn  aining  night 


Siiring  rose;    the  lady's    grave  was 

green ; 
And  near  it,  oftentimes,  was  seen 
A  gentle  boy  with  thoughtful  mien. 

Years  fled;  —  he  wore  a  manly  face, 
And  struggled  in  the  world's  rough 

race. 
And  won  at  last  a  lofty  place. 

And  then  he  died !  Behold  before  ye 
Humanity's  poor  sum  and  story; 
Life,  —  Death,  —  and  all  that  is  of 
glory. 


A   PRA  YER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Send  down  Thy  winged  angel,  God! 

Amid  this  night  so  wild ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we 
watch. 

And  breathe  upon  our  child ! 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 
And  moans  M'ithin  her  sleep, 

Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 
And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is.  we  know  too  well. 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts 

Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love  —  we  watch  throughout  the 
night. 
To  aid,  when  need  may  be; 
We  hope — and  have  despaired,   at 
times; 
But  now  we  turn  to  Thee  1 

Send  down  Thy  sweet-souled  angel 
God! 

Amid  the  darkness  wild; 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night. 

And  heal  our  ijeutle  child! 


THE  POETS  SON  a   TO  HIS   WIFE 

IIow  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
IIow  many  davs,  ihou  dove, 

Ilast  thou  been  mine  '? 


446 


FiiOCTOB. 


Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

W'litu  't  ixiitls  ihi-  tlowers, 
Hath  lutt  iiu  mark  In'luiul, 
To  coiiul  lliu  hours! 

Someweighl  of  lhought,tliongli  loath, 

Un  llii't'  he  leaves; 
Some  lim-s  of  care  round  both 

Tfrhaps  he  weaves; 
Some  fears,  —  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known; 
tSwi-et  looks  we  half  forget;  — 

All  else  is  flowu! 

Ah  I —  With  what  thankless  heart 

1  mourn  and  >ingl 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudilen  spring  I 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low 

Like  i)liasant  rhyme. 
They  tell  how  much  1  owe 

To  thee  and  lime! 


SOFTL  Y  WOO  A  »M  )'  HE II  nitEATH. 

SoKTl.Y  WOO  away  her  breath, 

(Jentle  death! 
Ij't  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender,  moiunful.  murnnninglife! 
tjhe  hath  seen  her  hapjiy  day, — 

.She  hath  had   her   bud   and  blos- 
som: 


Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  awav, 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom  I 

She  hath  clone  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  d»'ar! 
Bear  lier  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph      of      the      skies,  —  sweet 
love! 
Ciood  she  was.  and  fair  in  youth; 

Antl  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
Anil  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth: 

Take  her,  then,  forevermore, — 
Forever  —  evermore,  — 


/  DIE   Fon    rilY  SWEET  LOVE. 

I  niK  for  thy  sweet  love!  The  groimd 
Not  jianteth  so  for  summer  rain, 

As  1  for  one  soft  look  of  thine; 
And  yet, —  1  sigh  in  vain! 

A  lumdred  men  are  near  thee  now: 
Each     one,     perhaps,     surpassing 
me; 

liut  who  doth  feel  a  thousandth  part 
Of  what  1  feel  for  thee  ? 

They  look  on  thee,  as  men  will  look. 
Who  rninid  the  wild  world  laugh 
and  rove; 

/  only  think  how  sweet  'twould  be 
To  die  for  thy  sweet  love  I 


Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


Dur  n EAVES.  <)  Loitn,  i  can- 
sot  LOSE. 

Now  sumiu'T  finds  her  perfect  |)rime ! 
Swe»!l  bloWH  Ihi-  wind   imm  west- 
ern  calms; 
f)n  every  l)ower  red  roses  clindi; 
The     meadows    sleep   in  mingled 
halms. 
Nor  iire.uii.nor  bank  the  way.sideby, 

Hul  lilie-  tloal  and  daisies  llirong. 
Nor  Spuer  of  bill.    ;iiid  suuuy  sky 

That  i»  not  cleft  with  souring  song. 


O  flowery  morns,  ()  tuneful  eves, 

Fly  8«ift !  my  soul  ye  cannot  (111! 
IJring   the   rii)e  fruit,   the    garnered 
shcav«'s. 
The  drifting  snows  on    plain   and 
hill. 
Alike  to  me.  fall  frosts  junl  dews; 
iliit  Heaven,  ()  Lord,  1  <'annot  lose! 

Warm   hands   to-day  are  clasi)ed   in 
mine; 
Fond  hearts  my  mirth  oi  mourning 
share : 


PROCTOR. 


447 


And,  over  hope's  horizon  line. 

The  future  dawns,  serenely  fair; 
Yet  still,  though  fervent  vow  denies, 

I  know  the  rapture  will  not  stay ; 
Some  wind  of   grief  or  doubt  will 
rise 

And  t urn  my  rosy  sky  to  giay. 
I  shall  awake,  in  rainy  morn, 

To  find    my  heart  left  lone  and 
drear ; 
Thus,  half  in  sadness,  half  in  scorn, 

I  let  my  life  bm'n  on  as  clear 
Though  friends  grow  cold  or  fond 

love  woos; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose ! 

In  golden  hours,  the  angel  Peace 

Comes  down  and  broods  me  with 
her  wings : 
I  gain  from  sorrow  sweet  release; 

I  mate  me  with  divinest  things; 
When    shapes   of   guilt  and  gloom 
arise 

And  far  the  radiant  angel  flees,  — 
My  song  is  lost  in  mournful  sighs. 

My  wine  of  triumph  left  but  lees, 
In  vain  for  me  her  pinions  shine, 

And  pure,  celestial  days  begin : 
Earth's  passion-flowers  I  stfll  must 
twine, 

Xor  braid  one  beauteous  lily  in. 
Ah !  is  it  good  or  ill  I  choose  ? 
tint  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  1 

Sc  wait  I.     Every  day  that  dies 
With  Hush  and  fragrance  born  of 
June, 
I  know  shall  more  resplendent  rise 
AVhere  summer  needs  nor  sun  nor 
moon. 
And  every  bud  on  love's  low  tree, 
^VTiose  mocking  crimson  flames  and 
falls, 
In  fullest  flower  I  yet  shall  see 

Hi.uh  ljlooiiiin>;  by  the  jasper  walls. 
Nay.  every  sin  that  dims  my  tlays. 
And    wild    regrets    that    veil    the 
sun, 
.Shall    fade    before    those    dazzling 
rays, 
And  my  long  glory  be  begun  1 
Lot  ibe  years  come  to  bless  or  bruise; 
riiy   heaven,    O   Lord,   I  shall   not 
losel 


CONTOOCOOK  RIVER. 

Of  all  the  streams  that  seek  the  sea 
By  mountain  pass,  or  sminy  lea. 
Now  where  is  one  that  dares  to  vie 
With  clear    Contoocook,  swift  and 

shy? 
Monadnock's    child,  of    snow-drifts 

born. 
The  snows  of  many  a  winter  mom. 
And  many  a  midnight  dark  and  still. 
Heaped  higher,  whiter,  day  by  day. 
To  melt,  at  last,  witii  suns  of  May, 
And  steal  in  tiny  fall  and  rill, 
Down  the  long  slopes  of  granite  gray: 
Or.  filter  slow  Ihrough  seam  and  cleft. 
When  frost  and  storm  the  rock  have 

reft. 
To  bubble  cool  in  sheltered  springs 
Where  the    lone    red-bird    dips  his 

wings, 
And  the  tired  fox  that  gains  its  brink 
Stoops,  safe  from  hound  and  horn,  to 

drink. 
And  rills  and  springs,  grown  broad 

and  deep. 
Unite  through   gorge   and   glen  to 

sweep 
In  roaring  brooks  that  turn  and  take 
The  over-floods  of  pool  and  lake. 
Till,  to  the  fields,  the  liills  deliver 
Contoocook's   bright  and  brimming 

river! 

O  have  you   seen,  from   Hillsboro' 

town 
How  fast  its  tide  goes  hurrjlng  down. 
With  rapids  now,  and  now  a  leap 
Past  giant  boiflders,  black  and  steep, 
Plungeil  in  mid  water,  fain  to  keep 
Its  current  from  the  meadows  green  ? 
But,   flecked   with    foam,   it  speeds 

along; 
And  not  the  birch  trees'  silverj'  sheen. 
Nor  the  soft  lull  of  whispering  pines, 
Nor  hermit  thrushes,  fluting  low. 
Nor  ferns,  nor  cardi-nal  flowi-rs  that 

gluw 
■Wliere  clematis,  the  fairy,  twines, 
Can  stay  its  course,  or  still  its  song; 
Ceaseless  it  flows  till,  round  its  bod, 
The  vales  of  llenniker  are  sjiread. 
Their  banks  all  sot  with  golden  grain. 
Or  stately  trees  whose  vistas  gleam  - 
A  double  forest  in  the  stream; 


148 


PROCTOR. 


piTlP!- 


Atid.     wiiiiliii'j;     'ncatli     tin 

rrowiii'il  liill 
Tliat  overhangs  Uic  village  plain. 
IJy  sunny  roaciirs.  broaii  ami  still. 
It  uears   the   bridge   that  spans   its 

ti(if'  — 
The  bridgi;  whoso  an-hcs  low  and  wide 
It  ripples  through  —  and  should  you 

k-an 
A  nionicnt  there,  no  lovelier  seene 
Dn  England's  Wye,  or  .Scotland's  Tay, 
Would  eharni  yoiu*  gaze  a  sinunier's 

day. 

Anil  on  it  glides,  by  grove  an<l  glen, 
iJark  wootllaiids  and   the  honn-s  of 

men. 
With  now  a  ferry,  now  a  Tuill: 
Till,  deep  and  calm,  its  waters  fill 
The  channels  round  that  gem  of  isles 
Kaci'ed  to  captives'  woes  and  wiles. 
And.  gleeful  half,  half  eddying  back. 
Dlend  with  the  lordly  Meniinac: 
And  Meniniac  whose  tide  is  strong 
Ittjli.s  giiitly,  with  ius  waves  along, 
Monad  nock's    stream  that,  coy  and 

fair, 
Has  come,  its  larger  life  to  f-hare. 
And,  to  the  sea,  di)lh  safe  deliver 
Conloocook's  bright  and   brimming 

river! 


DAILY   nVISO. 

\(»T  in  a  moment  drops  the  rose 
That  in  a  summer  ganlen  grows: 
A  robin  sintis  beneath  the  tree 
A  twilight  song  of  ecstasy. 
Ami  the  red,  red  leaves  at  Its  fragrant 

heart. 
Trembling  so  in  delicious  pain. 
Fall    to   the   gnmnd   with   a  sudden 

start, 
And  the  grass  Is  gay  with  a  crim 

.son  .-Stalin , 
And  a  honey-bee,  out  of  the  fields 

of  clover. 
Heavily  Hying  the  garden  over, 
Ihiislii'S  the  slein  as  it  passes  by, 
AnU  others  fall  where  the   hearl- 

hiiives  lie, 
And  air  and  dew,  ere  the  night  is 

done. 
Have  stolen  llie  petals,  every  one. 


And  sunset's  gleam  of  gorgeous  dyei 
Ne'er  with  one  shadow  fades  away, 

IJu;  slowly  o'er  those  radiant  skies 
There  steals  the  evening  cold  and 

^'i;iy. 
And  amber  and  violet  linger  still 
When  stars  are  over  the  eastern  hilL 

The  maple  does  not  shed  Its  leaves 
In  one  tempestuous  scarlet  rain, 
l>ut    softly,  when    the    south   wind 

grieves, 
iSlow-wandering    over    wood     and 

plain. 
One  by  out'  they  waver  through 
The  Indian  Summer's  hazy  blue. 
And  drop,  at  last,   on    the   forest 

mould. 
Coral  and  ruby  and  burning  gold. 

Our  death  Is  gradual,  like  to  these; 

Wo  die  with  every  waning  day; 
There  is  no  waft  of  sorrow's  breeze 
But    bears    some    heart-leaf  slow 

away ! 
Up  and  on  to  the  vast  To  Be 
Our  life  is  going  eternally! 
Less  of  larth  than  we  had  Last  year 
Throbs  in  your  veins  and  throbs  in 
mine. 
Hut  the  way  to  heaven   is  growing 
clear, 
While  the  gates  of  the  city  fairer 

shine. 
And  the  day  that  our  latest  treas- 
ures (loo. 
Wide  they  will  open  for  you  and 
me! 


HKIiOES. 

TiiK  winils  that  once  the  .\rgo  bore 
Have    died    by    .Neptune's   ruined 
shrines. 
And  her  hull  Is  the  Irift  of  the  deep 
sea-floor. 
Though  shaped  of  I'elion's  tallest 
pines. 

Von  may  s<ek  her  crew  on  every  Lsle 
F'air  in  the  foam  of  -Kgean  seas, 

lint,  out  of  their  rest,  no  eharm  can 
wile 
J.'Lson  and  ()q)hcus  and  Ilerculeo. 


PROCTOR. 


449 


And  Priam's  wail  is  heard  no  more. 
By  windy  Ilion's  sea-built  walls; 
Nor  great  Achilles,  staiiu-d  with  gore, 
Shouts,  "O    ye  Gods!  'tis  Hector 
falls!" 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow, 
But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow 
away; 
And  red  on  tlie  plain  the  poppies 
grow 
Where  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan 
fought  that  day. 

Mother    Earth!     Are    the     heroes 
dead  ? 
Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years 
no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  pop- 
pies red  [yore  ? 
All  that  is  left  of    the  brave  of 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus 
fought  ? 
Far  in  the   young  world's   misty 
dawn '? 
Or  to  teach  as  the  gray-haired  Nestor 
taught  ? 
Mother    Earth!    are     the    heroes 
gone  ? 

Gone  ?    In  a  grander  form  they  rise; 
Dead  ?    We  may  clasp  iheir  hands 
in  ours;  [eyes. 

And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer 
And  wreathe  their  brows  w  ith  im 
mortal  llowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  Is  done 
'T  is  the  pidsc  of  a  hero's  heart  is 
stirred; 
Wlierever  Right  has  a  triinnpli  won 
There  are  tlie  heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 
Than  the  (Jreek   and  the  Trojan 
fiercely  trod ; 
For  Frecnlom's    sword  is   the  blade 
they  wield. 
And  the  light  above  is  the  smile  of 
of  God. 


So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away; 
For  the  heroes  live  and  the  sky  is 
bright. 
And  the  world  is  a  braver  world 
to-day. 


TO  MOSCOW. 

Across  the  steppe  we  journeyed, 

The  brown,  fir-darkened  plain 
That  rolls  to  east  and  rolls  to  west, 

Broad  as  the  billowy  main, 
When  lo!  a  sudden  si)lendor 
Came  shimmering  tlirough  the  air, 
As  if  the  clouds  should  melt  and  leave 

The  heights  of  heaven  bare, — 
A  maze  of  rainbow  domes  and  spires 

Full  glorious  on  the  sky, 
With  wafted  chimes  from  many  a 
tower 

As  the  south-wind  went  by. 
And  a  thousand  crosses  lightly  hung 

That  shone  like  morning  stars, — 
'Twas  the  Kremlin  wall!  'Twas  Mos 
cow, — 

The  jewel  of  the  Czars  I 


SUNSET  JN  MOSCOW. 

O  THE  splendor  of  the  city, 

When  the  siui  is  in  tlie  wvst! 
Ruddy  gold  on  spire  and  belfry. 

Gold  on  Moskwa's  plac'd  breast; 
Till  the  twilight  soft  anc'  sonil)ie 

Falls  on  wall  and  street  and  s<(uare, 
And  the  domes  and  towers  in  shadow 

Stand  like  silent  monks  at  prayer. 

'Tis  the  hour  for  dream  and  legend; 

Meet  me  by  the  Sacred  (4ate! 
We  will  watch  the  crowd  go  liy  us; 

We  will  stories  old  relate; 
Till  the  bugle  of  the  barracks 

Calls  the  soldier  to  rejiose. 
And  from  otT  the  steppi'  to  iiortliwj.K' 

Chill  the  wind  of  midnight  blop  a. 


.jO  QUARLES. 


Francis  Quarles. 

THE    WOULD. 

She's  empty:  liarki  she  sounds:  there's  nothing  there 

lint  noise  to  fill  thy  ear; 
Thy  vain  iu<iuiry  can  at  length  imt  liml 

A  blast  of  niurinuriiii,'  wind: 
It  is  a  cask  that  seems  as  full  as  fair, 

liiil  menly  tunned  with  air. 
Fond  youth,  go  build  thy  liojies  on  better  grounds; 

Ihe  soul  that  vainly  founds 
Her  joys  upon  this  worKl,  but  feeils  on  empty  soiuids. 

She's  emi)ty:  hark!  she  sounds;  there's  nothing  lu't: 

The  si)ark-engendering  Hint 
Shall  sooner  melt,  and  hardest  raunee  shall  first 

Dissolve  ami  <|Ueneii  thy  thirst, 
Ere  this  false  world  shall  still  thy  stormy  breast 

With  smooth-faced  calms  of  rest. 
Thou  niayst  as  well  exped  meriilian  light 

From  shades  of  blaek-mouthed  night 
As  in  this  empty  world  to  (ind  u  full  delight. 

She's  empty:  hark  I  she  sounds:  'tis  void  and  vast: 

What  if  some  flattering  blast 
Of  fatuous  honor  should  penhance  be  lln-re, 

And  \\hisi>er  in  thin*'  ear? 
[t  is  but  wind,  and  blows  but  where  it  list, 

And  vaiiisheth  like  mist. 
Poor  honor  earth  can  give!     \N  bal  generous  mind 

W'ouM  be  so  base  to  l)ind 
Her  heaven-bred  soid,  a  slave  to  serve  a  blast  of  wlud  ' 

She's  empty;  hark  I  she  soimds:  'tis  but  a  ball 

For  fools  to  jday  wiihal; 
The  painted  film  but  of  a  stronger  iiuiible. 

That's  lined  with  silken  trouble. 
It  is  a  world  whose  work  and  rec  leaiioii 

Is  vanity  and  vexation; 
A  hag,  repain'd  with  vice-eomplexjoned  paint, 

A  (piesf-honse  of  eoinplaint. 
It  is  a  saint,  a  liend;  worse  fiend  when  most  a  saint. 

She's  empty:  hark!  she  sounds:  'tis  vain  and  voi.l 

What's  here  to  be  enjoyed 
But  grief  and  sickness,  and  large  bills  of  sorrow, 

Drawn  now  and  crossed  to-morrow  !i 
Or,  what  are  men  l)Ut  pnfTs  of  dyinu  iireath, 

Kevised  Willi  livinu  cl.alh  '.' 
Fond  youlli.  <)  build  I  by  hopes  on  surer  uround^ 

i'li.in  wbal  dull  llesb  propounds: 
Trust  nut  this  hollow  world;  she's  empty:  harV  '  she  soundf. 


QUARLES. 


45\ 


ON  MAN. 

At  our  creation,  but  the  Word  was 
said; 

And  we  were  made ; 
No  sooner  were,  but  our  false  hearts 
ilid  swell 
^Vitll  pride,  and  fell : 
How  slight  is  man !  At  what  an  easy- 
cost 

He's  made  and  lost! 


GltlEF  FOR    THE   LOSS  OF    I  HE 
DEAD. 

I  MUST  lament,  Nature  commands  it 

so: 
The  more   I   strive   with  tears,   the 

more  tliey  flow; 
These   eyes  have    just,   nay,   double 

cause  of  moan ; 
They  weep  the  common  loss,  they 

weep  their  own. 
He  sleeps  indeed ;  then  give  me  leave 

to  weep 
Tears,  fully  answerable  to  his  sleep. 


ON  STN. 


How,  how  am  I  deceived!   I  thought 
my  bed 
Had  entertained  a  fair,  a  beauteous 
bride: 
Oh,  how  were  my  believing  thoughts 

misled 
To  a  false  beauty  lying  by  my  side! 
Sweet  were  her  kisses,  full  of  choice 
deliuht;  [night: 

My  fancy  found  no  difference  in  the 
I  thought  "they  were  true  joys  that 
thus  had  led 


My    darkened  soul,   but    they  were 

false  alarms ; 
I  thought  I'd  had  fair  Rachel  in  my 

bed, 
But  I  had  blear-eyed  Leah  in    my 

arms ; 
How  seeming  sweet  is  sin  when 

clothed  in  light, 
But,    when    discovered,    what    a 

loathed  delight. 


ON    THE  LIFE   OF  MAN. 

OuK  life  is  nothing  but  a  winter's 

day; 
Some  only  break  their  fasts,  and  so, 

away : 
Others  stay  dinner,  and  depart  full 

fed; 
The  deepest  age  but  sups  and  goes  to 

bed : 
He's  most  in  debt  that  lingers  out 

the  day ; 
Who  dies  betimes,  has  less;  and  less 

to  pay. 


ON  DOVES  AND  SERPENTS. 

We  must  have  doves  and  serpents  in 

our  heart; 
But  how  they  must  be  marshalled, 

there's  the  art. 
They  must  agree,  and    not  be    far 

asunder; 
The  dove  must  hold  the  wily  sei-pent 

under; 
Their  natures  teach  what  places  they 

must  keep, 
The  dove  can  fly;  the  serpent  onli 

creep. 


(52 


RALEIGH. 


Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


THE  LIE. 

Oo.  soul.  th<'  holly's  miest, 
Upn.i  a  ihanklfss  ernuul; 

Frar  iioi  iLi  loiicli  I  111-  best; 

The  triiib  shall  be  thy  warrant. 

(;o.  siiu't'  1  iK'ftls  luiist  (lie, 

Ami  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  i;lo\vs. 

Ami  shim-s  like  ^.uiiited  wood; 

Go,  tell  I  lie  ehureh  it  shows 
What's  ;,'()0(1.  but  does  no  good. 

It  court  ami  church  rei)ly. 

Give  court  and  church  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  they  live 
Acting,  but  oh  I  their  actions 

Not  loved,  unless  they  give; 

Not  strong,  hut  by  their  factions. 

If  potentates  reply, 

Give  poU?ntates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  affairs  of  stale, 

Their  puritost;  is  ambition: 
Their  practice  only  hate. 

And  il  they  do  rei.ly, 

Then  giv*'  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  those  that  brave  it  most, 
Tliey  beg  for  more  by  spending, 

Who,  in  th.ir  greatest  cost. 
Seek  nothing  l»ut  counnemling. 

Ami  if  they  make  reply. 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  U  lacks  devotion; 

'I'.-ll  love  it  is  but  lust; 
Tell  lime  it  is  but  motion; 

Till  llesh  it  is  but  duHt: 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  nuisl  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  waBteth; 

Tell  honr)r  how  it  alters; 
Tell  iMiiuty  lh.it  it  blasteth; 

Tell  favor  that  she  falt<T8; 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
Give  every  unu  the  Us. 


Tell  wit  how  nnich  it  wrangles 
In  fickle  points  oi  nicencss; 

Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Jlcrsilf  in  over-wiseness: 

.Vnd  if  Ihcy  do  rcidy, 

Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness; 

Tell  s'kill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  charity  of  coldness; 

'I'ell  law  "it  is  contention: 
And  if  they  yield  reply, 
Then  give  them  still  the  lie, 

Tell  fortune  of  lier  idindness; 

'i'ell  nature  of  decay; 
Tell  frien«lship  of  unkindness; 

'lell  justice  of  delay: 
And  if  thev  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  not  soundness, 

Hut  varv  by  esteeming: 
Tell  schools  ihey  lack  profoimdnesa 

And  stand  too  nuich  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
(five  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it's  lied  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth; 
Irll  iiiaidiootl  sli;ik.>  olT  pity; 

'iVIl  viriue.  least  preferreth. 
.\nd  if  they  do  rej.ly, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So,  when  thou  bast,  as  1 

Counuandcd  thee,  done  blal'bing 
Althouiih  to  give  the  lie, 

Desrrves  no  less  than  stabbing: 
Yet  stab  at  tliee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


THR  sii.Ksr  i.oriai. 

rAH»U»NK  are  likened  iK'st  to  llooda 

and  streams. 
The  shallow   murmur,  but  the  dw|l 

are  dundj; 


READ, 


453 


So,  when  affection  yields  discoxrrse, 

it  seems 
The  bottom  is  l)ut  shallow  whence 

.they  come ; 
They  that  are  ricli  in  words,  must 

needs  discover 
They   are    but    poor  in  that  which 

makes  a  lover. 

Wrong  not,   sweet    mistress  of    my 
heart, 

The  merit  of  true  passion; 
With  thinliing  that  he  feels  no  smart 

That  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Since,  if  my  plaints  were  not  to  ap- 
prove 

The  conquest  of  thy  beauty. 
It  comes  not  from  detect  of  love. 

But  fear  to  exceed  my  duty. 


For  knowing  not  I  sue  to  serve 
A  saint  of  such  perfection 

As  all  desire,  but  none  deserve 
A  place  in  her  affection, 

1  rather  choose  to  want  relief 
Than  venture  the  revealing; 

Where  glory  recommends  the  grief, 
Despair  disdains  the  healing. 

Silence  in  love  betrays  more  woe 
Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know. 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  heart, 
My  love  for  secret  passion; 

He  smarteth    most    who    hides   his 
smart 
And  sues  for  no  compassion. 


Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


SHERIDAN'S  lUDE. 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day. 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with   a   shudder 

bore. 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chief- 
tain's door. 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and 

roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 
And    louder    ^et    into    Winchester 

rolled 
The  roar  of  that,  red  sea  uncontrolled. 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 
As   he   tbouuht  of   the  slake  in  that 

fiery  fray, 
With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester 

town. 
A.    good,     broad     highway,    leading 

down ; 


And  there,  through  the  flash  of  the 

morning  light, 
A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 
Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight. 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need. 
He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost 

speed; 
Hills  rose  and  fell,  —  but  his  heart 

was  gay. 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  spnmg  from  those  swift  hoofs, 
thundering  south 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  can- 
non's mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet ,  sweeping 
faster  and  fas*^er,  [disaster. 

Foreboding  to   traitors  the  doom  of 

The  heart  of  tlic  steed  and  the  heart 
of  the  master 

Were  beating,  like  prisoners  assault- 
ing their  walls,  [calls; 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field 

Every  nerve  of  tln^  charger  was 
strained  to  full  j^Iay, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 


454 


HEAD. 


I''n<lor  his  spuming  feet,  the  roa<l 
IJki'  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  tiowotl. 
And  llie  ianiisraiK- sjti'd  away  ln-hiinl. 
Like  an  oci-an  Hying  before  the  wind; 
And  the  stei-d.  like  a  bark  fed  wiili 

furnaet-  ire, 
Swept  on,  witli  liis  wild  eyes  fiill  of 

tire; 
But,    lo!    he    is  nearing  his  heart's 

desire. 
He  is  snufhni;  the  smoke  of  the  roar- 

ini;  Iray, 
With  81ieridan  only  Hve  miles  away : 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were 
the  firoups 

Of  stnigylers,  and  then  the  retreating 
troops ; 

What  was  done,  —  what  to  ilo, — a 
glance  told  him  both. 

And,  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terri- 
ble oaih. 

He  dashed  down  the  line  mid  a  stonn 
of  Inizzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its 
course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it 
to  i>ause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black 
charger  was  gray; 

By  the  tlash  of  his  eye,  and  his  nos- 
trils' play. 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  anny  to 
say, 

"  I  have  brotight  you  Sheridan  all  the 
way 

From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the 
day!" 

Hiirrali.  liurrah  for  .Sheridan! 
Ilitrr.ih,  hurraii  for  horse  and  man! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on 

\\vz\\. 
Under  til'-  don)e  of  the  Union  sky.  — 
The  American  soldier's   Temple   of 

Fame,— 
There   with   the    glorious   Oenenil's 

name 
Be   it    sai<l   in  letters  lx)th  lK>ld  and 

bright: 
"  Here  is  the  sleeil  that  saved  the  day 
By  earrying  Sheridan  into  tiie  ligjit,' 
From     WiMelu'ster, —  twenty     miles 

away! " 


THE  (LOS IS G  SCEXE. 

Wrnii.N   the  sober  realm  of  leafiest 
trees. 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy 
air; 
Like  some  tanned  reaper,  in  his  hour 
of  ease. 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown 
and  bare. 

The  gray  bams  looking  from  their 
hazy  hills. 
O'er  the  dun  waters  widening  in 
the  vales, 
Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the 
mills 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  altemat« 
flails. 

All    sights    were  mellowed    and    all 
sounds  suixlued. 
Tlie  hills  seemed  further  and  the 
stream  sang  low," 
As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman 
hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muflled 
blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed 
with  gold. 
Their  banners   l)riplit   with   every 
martial  liu«', 
Now  stood  like  some  sad,  beaten  host 
of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest 
l)lue. 

On  slumb'rouR  wings  the  vulture  held 
bis  flight; 
The  dove  scarce  lu-ard  its  sighing 
mate's  comjilaint ; 
And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the 
light. 
The  village  church-vane  seemed  tc 
pale  and  faint. 

The  sentini'1-cock  upon  the  hillside 
crew.  — 
Crew  tliriee.  —  and   all  was  stiller 
tlian  iH-fore; 
.Silent,  till  suMie  n  plvini,'  warden  blew 
His  ali<  n  born,  aixi  then  wjis  beard 
uu  more. 


BEAD. 


455 


Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's 
tall  crest, 
Made  garrulous  trouble  I'ound  her 
linfledged  young; 
And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  sway- 
ing nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer 
swung ;  — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  martens  of  the 
eaves, 
The  busy  swallows    circling    ever 
near,  — 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  be- 
lieves. 
An  early  harvest  pnd  a  plenteous 
year ; — 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the 
vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its 
wings  at  morn, 
To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east : — 
All  now  wa«  sunless,  empty,  and 
foi  lorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the 
quail. 
And  croaked  the  cro^^•  through  all 
the  dreamy  gloom ; 
Alone  th(!  pheasant,  drumming  in  the 
vale. 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage 
loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon 
the  bowers; 
The    spiders    moved    their    thin 
shrouds  night  by  night. 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of 
flowers, 
Sailed  slowly  by,  —  passed  noiseless 
out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this  —  in  this  most  cheerless 
air, 
And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon 
the  porch 
Its    crimson    leaves,   as   if  the  year 
stood  there 
Firing  tiu-  floor  with  his  inverted 
torch,  — 


Amid    all    this,  the    centre    of    the 
scene. 
The  white-haired  matron  with  mo- 
notonous  tread 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her 
joyless  mien 
Sat,  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the 
flying  thread. 

She  had    known  Sorrow,  —  he    had 
walked  with  her. 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  bitter 
ashen  crust; 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard 
the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the 
dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with 
summer  bloom. 
Her  countiy  siunmoned  and    she 
gave  her  all ; 
And  twice  War  bowed  to  her   his 
sable  plume,  — 
Re-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon 
the  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords,  but  not  the  hand 
that  drew 
And  struck  for  Liberty  the  dying 
blow; 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country 
true. 
Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading 
foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel 
went  on. 
Like  the  low  munnur  of  a  hive 
at  noon ; 
Long,   but   not  loud,  the  memory  of 
the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and 
tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped ;  her 
head  was  bowed ; 
Life  droi)t  the  distaff  through  his 
hands  serene: 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her 
eareful  sliroud. 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the 
autumn  scene. 


456 


READ. 


THE  BHAVE  AT  UOMK. 

The   maid   who  binds  her  warrior's 
sash 
With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dis- 
sembles. 
The  while  beneath  her  drooi»inir  lash 
One    staiTj'   tear-drop   hangs    and 
trembles,  |tear, 

Thoui,'h    Heaven   alone   reeords    the 
Anil   Fame  shall  never  know   her 
story. 
Her  heart  "has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  e'er  betlewt-d  the  field  of  glory ! 

The  wife   who  girds   her  husband's 
sword. 
Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wondi-r. 
And     bravi'ly    si)eaks    the    clu-t-ring 
wonl. 
What    thongli    lu-r   heart    be    rent 
asunder, 
Doomtil  niuhtly  in  her  dreams  to  lu-ar 
Tht>    bolts   of    deulli    aromid    hiiu 
rattle, 
ilath  slu'd  as  saered  blotnl  as  e'er 
Was  pouifd  upon  Ihi-  field  of  battle! 

The  mothrr  who  coneeals  her  grief 
Wliilf   to  her   breast   her  son  she 
presses. 
Then  br.-athes  a  f<w  brave  words  and 
l)rief, 
Kissing  the  pat  riot  brow  she  blesses. 
With  no  on«'  but  lu-r  secret  (Jod 
To    know   the    pain    that    weighs 
upon  her, 
Sb'ds  holy  lilood  as  e'er  the  sod 
Keet-ived    on    Freedom's    field    of 
honor! 


DlUhVISn. 

My  soul  to-<lay 

Is  far  away. 
Sailing  thf  Vrsuvian  Hay, 

My  winued  boat, 

A  bird  atloiit, 
Swims    round    tin;   purplr    jx-aks    n- 
mote:  — 

Hound  iiinjilf  peaks 
It  wiilft,  and  sfcks 
blue  lnli-ti  and  tlu-ir  rryHtal  ererks. 


Where  high  roeks  throw, 
Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vagu«s  and  dim 

The  mountains  swim; 
While,  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  oulstretehed  hands. 

The  gniv  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  voleanie  lauds. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liijuid  miles; 
And  yonder.  l>luest  of  the  isles, 

Oalm  Capri  waits. 

Her  sapi>liire  gates 
Hegniling  to  her  bright  estates. 

1  heed  not.  if 

My  rii'pliug  skitT 
Float  swift  or  slow  fromeliff  to  cliff;- 

With  dreaudul  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under"  the  walls  of  Taradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay's  «leep  l>n*:ist  at  intervals, 

At  peai-e  1  lit'. 

IJlown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  tliis  liijuid  sky. 

The  day.  so  mild. 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Karth  and  Ocean  reconciletl ; — 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are   murmuring   to  the  amrnuirin^ 
keel. 

I  iver  the  rail 

My  hand  1  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail; 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
(ilides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
\\  iiere     Summer     sings    and   nwrei 
.lies,— 

O'erveiled   willi  vines. 

She  '^iows  iinil  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wlnes. 


REALF. 


45; 


Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid. 
A.re  gambolling  u  illi  the  gambolling 
kid ; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
L(augh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,   bright  sand   be- 
guiled, 

Willi  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  tar-off  ships. 

Yon  dee])  bark  goes 

Where  (rattle  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows ; — 

This  happier  one. 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 


O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip. 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lipl 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  I 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  witli  its  loud  uproarl 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  I 

In  lofty  lines. 

Mid  palms  and  pines, 
.'vnd  olives,  aloes,  elms,  and  vines, 

Sorrento  swings 

On  sunset  wings, 
\rhere    Tasso's     spirit    soars    and 
sings. 


Richard  Realf. 


MY  SLAIN. 

This  sweet  child  that  hath  climbed 
upon  my  knee, 
This  amber-haired,  fom'-summered 
little  maid, 
With  her  unconscious  beauty  troub- 
leth  me. 
With  her  low   prattle  maketh  me 
afraid. 
Ah,   darling!    when    you    cling  and 
nestle  so 
You  hurt  me,  though   you  do  not 

see  ni(!  cit. 
Nor  hear  the  weariness  with  which 
I  sigh 
For  the  dear  babe  I  killed  so  long 
ago. 
I    trenjble    at    the  touch  of    your 
caress : 
I  am  not   worthy  of  your  innocent 
faith; 
I,    who    with    whetted    knives    of 
worldliness, 
Did  put  my  own  child-heartedness  to 
death; 


Beside  whose  grave  I  pace  forever. 

more. 
Like  desolation   on   a    shipwrecked 

shore. 

There  is  no  little  child  within  me  now, 

To  sing  back  to  the  thrushes,  to 

leap  up 

When  June  winds  kiss  me,  when  an 

apple-bough 

Laughs  into  blossoms,  or  a  butter- 

CUJ) 

Plays  witli  the  sunshine,  or  a  violet 
Dances    in    the    glad   dew.     Alas! 

alas! 
The  meaning  of  the  daisies  in  the 
grass 
I  have  forgotten;  and  if  my  cheeks 
are  wet. 
It  is  not  with  the  blitheness  of  the 
child. 
But   with   the  bitter  sorrow  of   sai( 
yea  IS. 
O  moaning  life!  with  hfe   iirecun- 
ciltid; 


458 


mCHARDSOX. 


O  biickwai'd-lookiiij^  tlioiii,'bl  I  ( )  pain  I 

O  leurs ! 
For  us  there  is  not  any  silver  souml 
Of  rUythniic  wonders  springing  from 

the  ground. 

Woe  worth   tin-  knowledge  and  the 
bookish  lore 
Which     nuikes     men     miumiues; 
weighs  out  evei^  grain 
Of  that  w hicli  was  miraculous  before, 
And  sneers  liie   heart   down    with 
the  scolnng  brain; 
Woe     worth     the    peering,    analytic 
days 


That  dry  the  tender  juices  in  tlx 

breast. 
And  put  the  thunders  of  the  ].on) 
to  test,  I  praise. 

So  that  no  manel  must  be.  and  no 

Nor  any  God  except  Ne<'essity. 
What  can  ye  give  my   poor  stained 
life  in  lieu 
Of  this  dead  cherub  which  1  slew 
for  ye ! 
Take  back  your  doubtful  wisdom  and 
renew  (dunce. 

My   early   foolish   freshness   of   the 
Whose  simple  instincts  guessed  '.he 
heaveus  at  once. 


Charles  F. 

AMEX/JS. 

Think  not  your  duty  iloue  when,  sad 
and  liartid. 
Your  liearl  recoiuits  its  sin.s. 
And   j)raying  (iod  for  iiardon,  weiik 
and  fearful. 
Its  better  life  begins, 

\or  rest  content  wlien,  braver  grown 
anil  str<jnger." 
Your  days  arc  sweet  and  pure, 
lJecau.se    you     follow    evil    ways    no 
longer, 
In  ("hrist's  cU'fence  secure. 

Uethink  you  then,  but  not  with  fruit- 
less ruing. 
— That  bids  ijic  past  be  still, 
Hut  what   your  life  hius  wrought  to 
men's  undoing, 
Hy  inlhience  for  ill. 

♦  Jo  forth,  and  dun-  not  rest  imlil  the 
morrow. 
Hut,  lest  it  be  too  late, 
S«?ek  out  the  hearts  whose  weight  of 
sin  and  sorrow 
Through     you    has     grown    more 
gr.-al. 

Take  gifts  to  all  of  love  and   iipara- 
tion. 
Or  if  it  may  not  be, 


Richardson. 

I'ray  Christ,  with  ceaseless  lips,  to 
send  salvation 
Till  each  chained  soul  be  free. 


iroiisiiir. 

Hi{.\VK  spirit,  that  will  brook  no  in- 
tervention, 
Hut  thus  alone  before  thy  (»o<l  dost 
stand. 
Content  if  he  but  .see  thy  heart's  in- 
tention, — 
Why  spurn  the  su]>pliant  knee  and 
outstretched  hand  ;' 

Sweet  soul,  that    kneclcst    in  the  sol- 
enni  glory 
Of    son   cathedral  altar,  while  «be 
jtniyer 
Of  priest  or  bisliop  tells  thine   own 
bean's  story.  — 
Why  think  that  they  alone  lu  umhh 
keys  may  bear  i' 

Man    woi*sbii»s    with    the    heart;    for 
W  l|cresoe\  er 
<  )ne  burning  i>ulsr  of  heartfelt  hom- 
;ti,'i'  sljrs. 
Then-  (;<»!  shall  ^ltalgbtway  Mnd  \\\i 
o\\  n.  and  never 
in  chun-b  or  de.s<rl,  udss  liia  wor 
shippers.  ^ 


EOBERTS. 


459 


PA  TIENCE. 

If,  wlu'Q  you  labor  all  tlip  day, 
You  see  its  inlnulcs  slip  away 
With  joy  unfoiind,  with  work  undone, 
And  hope  descendini^  with  the  sun, 

Then  cheerily  lie  down  to  rest: 
The  longest  work  shall  be  the  best; 
And  when  the  morrow  greets  your 

eyes, 
V\'ith  strong  and  patient  heart  arise. 

¥oY  Patience,  stern  and  leaden-eyed, 
Looks  far  where  future  joys  abide; 
\or  Sijes  short  sadness  at  her  feet, 
¥oi-  ;iiglit  of  triiunph  long  and  sweet. 


iMiTA  rioy. 

'••:!;j;e  shall  we  find  a  perfect  life, 

whereby 
I  o  shape  our  lives  for  all  eternity  ? 

J'his  man  is  great  and  wise;  the  world 
reveres  him. 
lieveres,  but  cannot  love  his  heart 
of  stone ; 
And  so  it  dares  not  follow,  though  it 
fears  him, 
But  bids  liim  walk  his  mountain 
path  alone. 

That  man  is  good  and  gentle;  all  men 
love  him. 
Yet  dare  not  ask  his  feeble  arm  for 
aid ; 
The  world's   best  work  is  ever   fai- 
above  him. 
He    shrinks    beneath    the    storm- 
capijed  momitaiu  shade. 


O   loveless  strength!  O  strengthless 
love!  the  Master 
Whose  life  shall  shape  our  lives  is 
not  as  thou : 
Sweet  Friend  in  peace,  strong  Saviour 
in  disaster. 
Our  heart  of  hearts  enfolds  thine 
image  now ! 

Be  Christ's  the  fair  and  perfect  life 

whereby 
We  shape  our  lives  for  all  eternity. 


JUSTICE. 

A  HUNDRED    noble    wishes  fill  my 
heart, 
I  long  to  help  each  soul  in  need  of 
aid; 
In  all  good  works  my  zeal  would  have 
its  part. 
Before  no  weight  of  toil  it  stands 
afraid. 

But    noble    wishes    are    not    noble 
deeds. 
And  he  does  least  who  seeks  to  do 
the  whole; 
Who   works   the   best,   his   simplest 
duties  heeds. 
Who  moves  the  world,  first  moves 
a  single  soul. 

Then  go,  my  heart,  thy  plainest  work 
begin. 
Do  first  not  what  thou  canst,  but 
what  thou  must; 
Build  not  upon  a  corner-stone  of  sin. 
Nor  seek  great  works  mitil  thou 
first  be  just. 


Sarah  Roberts. 


THE    VOICE   OF   THE   0/iASS. 

Here    I    come    creeping,    creeping 
everywhere; 
By  the  dusty  roadside. 
On  the  sunny  hill-side, 
Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 


In  eveiy  shady  brook, 
I    come     creeping,    creeping    every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  every' 
where; 
All  around  the  open  door, 


460 


ROGERS. 


Where  sit  th<'  ivj.M  poor: 
lien-  wlitn-  tlic  rhildri'ii  play, 
In  the  l)rii,'lit  ami  iiu'rry  5lay, 
I    come    creeping,    creeping    every- 
where. 

Ilere  1  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
wlicre; 
In  lilt'  noisy  city  street. 
My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 
Clu'crinL;  tlu'  sick  at  heart 
'lolling  liis  busy  part  — 
Silently    creeping,     creeping    every- 
where. 

Here  I  conic  creepint;,  creepini^evcry- 
wliiTc; 
Von  cannot  see  me  coniinsi. 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  hunnnini,': 
For  in  the  starry  niichl, 
Anil  th<*  1,'lail  morning  light, 

I  «!onie  (jiii«;ily  creei)ing  everywhen*. 

IIcic  i  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 

wlicle: 

More  welcome  than  the  llowers 


In  snnuucr's  pleasant  hours; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  every« 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where; 
When  you're   numbered   with  the 

dca.l 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 
ill  the  happy  sjiring  I'll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home  — 
Creeping,    silently     creeping    every- 
where. 

1  III!'  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where; 
My  limnMi-  song  of  praise 
Most  jo>  fully  I  raise 
To  Ilim  at  whose  conunanil 
I  beautify  tlie  land, 
('reei>in:,',    silently    creeping   every- 
where. 


Samuel  Rogers. 


Six  hoemi  entilled  hj/  the  author,  " Ueflecliont." 

THE    l'Hliyi:i!SI(i\  Oh'  f!l:KAT 
UIFIS. 

.\l.As,  to  oiu- discomfort  and  his  own. 

( )ft  are  the  greatest  talents  lo  bi-  fouiul 

In  a  fool's  keeping.  For  what  else 
is  III-, 

However  worldly  wise  and  worldly 
strong. 

Who  can  pervert  and  to  the  worst 
abuse 

The  noblest  means  (o  Si-rve  the  no- 
blest ends  •' 

Who  can  employ  the  gift  of  elo- 
ipience. 

That  Hjiered  gift,  to  diu/.lu  and  de- 
lude; 

Or,  if  acjiievenienl  in  the  f'leUI  lie  his, 

Clind)  liut  III  '^MJii  a  loss,  sutTering 
bow  much, 

And  bow  mil.  h  more  inllictingi 
I. very  wliert, 


Cost  what  they  will,  such  cruel  freaks 

are  ])layed; 
And  hence  the  turmoil  In  this  world 

of  ours. 
The   lunuoil   never  ending,  still  be- 

uiiiiiiiu;. 
The  wailing  and  the  tears. —  When 

(  asar  came, 
lie  who  could   master  all    men   but 

himself. 
Who  did   so   much  and  coidd  so  well 

record  it ;  |part, 

l']ven  he.  the  most  a])|i1audcd   in    his 
Who,    when    he    sjmke,    all    things 

Kiimined  u]»  in  him, 
.spoke   to  convince,  nor  ever,    wlnn 

Id'  fought. 
Fought  but  to  eon(|uer, —  what  a  life 

was  bis, 
.Slayini:  so  many.  In  be  slain  at  last ; 
A  life  of  trouble  and  incessant  toil. 
And-  all   to  gain  what  is  far  betlex 

UiiiMtedl 


ROGERS. 


461 


HEAirr  SUPERIOR   TO  HEAD. 

TuE  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than 

the  schools: 
And  well  they  may.    All  that  is  great 

ill  llioaght, 
That  strikes  at  once  as  with  electric 

fire, 
And  lifts  us,  as  it  were,  from  earth 

to  heaven, 
Comes  from  the  heart ;  and  who  con- 
fesses not 
Jts  voice  as  sacred,  nay,  almost  di- 
vine, 
When   inly  it  declares  on  what  we 

do. 
Blaming,  approving  ?    Let  an  erring 

wuiM 
.Judge  as  it  will,  we  care  not  while 

we  stand 
Aciiuitted     there;     and     oft,    when 

clouds  on  clouds 
Compass  us  round  and  not  a  track 

apptiars. 
Oft   is  an   upright  heart  the  surest 

guide, 
Surer  and  Iietter  than  the  subtlest 

head ; 
Still  with  its  silent  counsels  through 

the  dark 
i)nward  and  onward  leading. 


And  onward  goes,  humbly  and  cheer- 
fully, 

Assisting  them  that  faint,  weak 
though  he  be. 

And  in  his  trying  liours  trusting  in 
God, — 

Fair  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  fairer  still; 

For  what  was  innocence  will  then  be 
virtue. 


MAN^S   RESTLESSNESS. 

Man  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward 

child; 
So  eager  for  the  future,  come  what 

may. 
And  to  the  present  so  insensible! 
Oh,  if  he  could  in  all  things  as  he 

would. 
Years  would  as  days,  and  hours  as 

moments,  be; 
He  would,  so  restless  is  his  spirit 

here. 
Give  wings  to  time,  and  wish  his  life 

away ! 


ON  A   CHILD. 

Tins  child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub- 
like. 
No  fairer  spirit  in  the  heaven  of 
heavens) 

Say,  must  he  know  remorse  ?    Must 
passion  come, 

Passion  in  all  or  any  of  its  shapes. 

To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so 
pure  ? 

res,  come-  it  must.     For  who,  alas! 
has  lived, 

Nor  in  the  watches  of  the  night  re- 
called 

Words   he   has   wished  unsaid    and 
deeds  undone  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     Hut  if,  as  we 
may  ho])e, 

He  learns  ere  long  to  discipUue   liis 
mind, 


THE  SELFISH. 

Oh,  if  the  selfish  knew  Iiov  much 

they  lost. 
What  would  they  not  endeavor,  not 

endure. 
To  imitate,  as  far  as  in  them  lay. 
Him  who  his  wisdom  and  his  power 

employs 
In  making  others  happy ! 


EXHORTATION   TO  MARRIAGE. 

Hence  to  the  altar  and  with  her 
thou  lov'st. 

With  her  who  longs  to  strew  thy  way 
with  llowers; 

Nor  lose  the  blessed  privilege  to  give 

Birth  to  a  race  immortal  as  your- 
selves, 

Which  trained  by  you.  shall  make  :i 
heaven  on  earth. 

And  tread  the  path  that  leads  froii: 
earth  to  heaven. 


4G2 


nOGERS. 


[From  Human  Life.] 

THE    PASSAGJ-:     FItOM     Itlimi     TO 
A(iK. 

Axn  such  is  Human  Life;  so,  glid- 
ing on. 
It  gliiniuers   like  a  meteor,  and   is 

IJOIH'I 

Yet  is  tin'  tall'.  l)rief  though  it  be,  as 

straiiLji'. 
As  full,  iiK'tliiiiks,  of  wild  and  won- 
drous change, 
As  any   that   thi;   wandering    tribes 

require. 
Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their 

eveninii  tire; 
As  any  suni;  oi  old  in  liall  or  bower 
To     niinstrel-li:iri>s     at     midnight's 

witching  hour! 
Born   in   a   trance,  we  wake,  ob- 

ser\'e,  ini|uire; 
And  the  green  earth,  tlie  azure  sky 

ailniire 
Of  eltin-sizi'. —  for  ever  as  we  run. 
We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun! 
And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace 

is  won! 
We  grow  in  stature,  and  in  wistlom 

too! 
And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects  rise 

to  view. 
Think  nothing  done  wliile  aught  re- 
mains to  do. 
Vet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eyelids 

dose. 
And  from  the  shuk  hand  drops  the 

gathered  rose! 
How  oft,  as  (lead,  on  the  warm  turf 

we  lie, 
While  many  an  emmt'l  comes  with 

curious  eye; 
And  on  lier  nest  the  watchftd  wren 

si  Us  by! 
Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or 

see; 
.So  like  what  once  we  were,  ami  once 

again  shall  he! 
And  .say.  how  scxm,  wlicre,  blithe 

a.s  Innocent, 
Tlie  iKjy   iit   sunrise    carol le<I    as    lie 

Went, 

An  agrd   |iil)^'rim  on  his  staiT  sluill 
lean, 


Tracing  in  vain  tlie  footsteps  o'er  the 

green ; 
The  man  himself  liow  altered,   not 

the  scene! 

Now  journeying  home  with  nothing 
but  the  name; 

Wayworn  and  spent,  auotlier  and 
the  same! 

No  eye  ohserves  tlie  growth  or  the 
decay. 

Tonlay  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday; 

And  we  sliall  look  to-morrow  as  to- 
day. 


\_Frtnn  Human  /.i/V.] 
TRUE    LWJUy. 

Thk.n    bifore   all    they  stand, —  the 
holy  vow 

And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions 
now, 

Hind  her  as  his.     Across  the  thresh- 
old led. 

And  every  tear  kissed  off  as  soon  as 
she.l. 

Ilis  house  she  enters, —  there  to  be  a 
light 

Shining  within,  when  all  without  is 
night ; 

A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presid- 
ing. 

Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares 
dividing; 

Winning  him  back,  when  mingling 
in  the  throng. 

From  a  vain  world  we  love,  alas,  too 
long. 

To  liri">idi'  h;>i)pinfss,  and   hours  of 
case 

Blest  with  that  charm,  liie  cerlainfy 
to  please. 

H()W  oft  her  eyes  n  ad  his;  her  gentle 
mind 

To  all  his  wishes,  .ill  his  thoughts 
inclined; 

Still   suliji'ct. —  ever  on  the  watch  to 
liorrow 

Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his 
sorrow. 

The  soul  of  nnisic  sltunl»rs  in   tho 
si. .•II. 

Till  waki'il   ami  kindleil  Ijy  the  mas- 
ter's spell ; 


ROGERS. 


468 


And  feeling  hearts, —  touch  them  but 

rightly, —  pour 
A  thousand  melodies  imheard  before ! 


[From  Human  Life.] 

AGE. 

Age  ha",  now 
Stamped  with  its  signet  that  ingenu- 
ous brow; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 
Trees  he  has  climbed  so  oft,  he  sits 

and  sees 
His  cliildren's  children  playing  round 

his  knees: 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the 

quoit  is  Hung, 
When  side  by  side  the  archers'  bows 

are  strung; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge 

the  prize,  [energies 

Envying   no   more   the   young   tiieir 
Than   they   an    old    man   when   his 

words  are  wise; 
His  a  delight  how  pure  .  .  .  with- 
out alloy ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in 

their  joy!  [repay 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they 

The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many 

a  day; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved, 

restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoj-ment.  In  his  walks. 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops 

and  talks, 
While  they  look  up!  Their  questions, 

their  replies, 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round 

him  rise, 
Gladdening  his  spirit;  and,  his  theme 

the  past, 
How  clofiuent  he  is!    His  thoughts 

flow  fast; 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh,  can  the 

heart  grow  old  ? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  world 

are  told!) 
Swells   in   his  voice,  he   knows  not 

\vh('n>  to  end; 
Like   one  discoursing  of  an  absent 

friend. 


But  there  are  moments  which  he 
calls  his  own. 

Then,  never  less  alone  than  when 
alone, 

Those  whom  he  loved  so  long  and 
sees  no  more. 

Loved  and  still  loves, —  not  dead, — 
but  gone  before, 

He  gathers  round  him;  and  revives 
at  will 

Scenes  in  his  life, —  that  breathe  en- 
chantment still, — 

That  come  not  now  at  dreary  inter- 
vals,— 

But  where  a  light  as  from  the  blessed 
falls, 

A  light  such  guests  bring  ever, — pure 
and  holy, — 

Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melan- 
choly! 

—  Ah,  then  less  willing  (nor  the 
choice  condemn) 

To  live  with  others  than  to  think  of 
them! 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Memory.] 
MEMOR  Y. 

Thou  first,  best  friend  that  heaven 

assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares 

we  know; 
Whose  glad    suggestions    still    each 

vain  alarm. 
When  nature  fades  and  life  forgets 

to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke!  —  to 

thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept  and  the  poet's 

song. 
What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass 

reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  time's  meek 

twilight  steals! 
As  when   in  ocean  sinks  \\\o  orli  of 

day, 
liOng  on  the  wave  reflected   lustres 

play: 
Thy  tempered  gleams  of  happiness 

resigned 
Glance   on   the   darkened  minoi   of 

the  mind. 


i04 


RUSSETTL 


Hail,  raenior)-,  hail  I  in  thy  exhaust- 
less  mine 
From  a.i;t'  to  age  unnunibt'ied  troas- 

uros  shine! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy 

call  ohey. 
And  place  and  time  are  subject  to 

thy  sway ! 
Thy   pleasures   most  we  feel,   when 

most  alone; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can   call  oixr 

own. 
Lighter    than    air,    hope's    summer 

visions  die, 
if   but  a  lleeting  cloud  obscure  the 

sky ; 
if  but  a  beam  of  sober  reason  play, 
Lo,    fancy's   fairy   frost-work    melts 

away  I 
Hut  can  the  wiles  of  art,  the  grasp  of 

power 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent 

hour  ? 
Tliese,    when    the    trembling    spirit 

w^Miis  lier  fliirht. 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  liv- 
ing light; 
And    gilfl    lliose    pure    and   perfect 

realms  of  rest. 
Where  virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons 

are  blest! 


Mute  is  the  bell  'that  rung  at  peep  oi 

dawn. 
Quickening  my  truant  feet  across  the 

lawn ; 
Unheard   the    shout    that  rent    the 

noim-lide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  imuse  to 

care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a 

tear. 
Some    little   friendship   formed    and 

cherishetl  here; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trem- 
bling teems 
With  g(»liien   visions  and   romantic 

dreams! 


[Frirm  Th,-  PU-nnuif  s  ../'  Stfmnry.} 
Tin:   OLD  SCIlOiil.-IIOL'SK. 

TiiK  sebnol's  lone  jiorcli,  with  rev- 
erend mosses  gray. 
Just  tells    he  pensive  pilgrim  where 
it  lay. 


[Prom  The  Pleasum  of  ^femory.] 
GUARDIAX  SPIRITS. 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead 

descend 
To  watcli  the  silent  slumbers  of  a 

friend; 
To   hoviT  round   his  evening   walk 

unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky 

green ; 
To   hail   the   spot   where   first  their 

frienilship  grew. 
And  heaven  and   natun'   opened  \u 

their  view! 
Oft,    wlien    he    trims    his    cheerfuV 

hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  ennilous  to  please; 
There  lu.iv    ibese   gentle   guesls   de- 

liglii   to  dwell. 
And    bless  the  .scene  they    loved  in 

life  so  well! 


Christina  Georgina  Rossetti. 


rr-im.h. 
DoKs  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the 
way  ? 
Ye<«,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  dav's  journey  take  the  whole 
lonu'day? 
From  mmu  to  night,  my  friend. 


Ihit  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting- 
place  ? 
.\    roof    for   wln'n    the   slow  dark 
hours  begin. 
May  not  th.-darkne-^s  hide  it  from  my 
far,.*,' 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 


ROSSETTL 


465 


Shall  I  meet  other  waj'f  arers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  1  knock,  or  call  wlien  just 
hi  siglit  ? 
They -will  not  keep  you  standing  at 
that  door. 

jhall  I  finri  comfort,  travel-sore  and 
weak  ? 
Of  labor  you  ^nall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me   and  all 
who  seek  ? 
Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


REMEMBER. 

Kememkek    me    when  I  am    gone 
away, 
Gone  faraway  into  the  silent  land; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by 
the  hand, 
\or  I  half  turn  togo,  yet  turning  stay. 
Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by 
day 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you 

plaimeil ; 
Only   remember  me;    you  under- 
stand Ipray. 
It  will  be   late  to  counsel   then   or 
Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a 
while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not 
grieve:  [leave 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once 
I  had. 
Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and 
sn)i!e 
Than    liat  you  should   remember 
and  be  sad. 


THE  FIRST  SPRING  DAY. 

I  woNDKK  if  the  sap  is  stirring  yet. 
If   wintry   birds  are  dreaming  of  a 

mate, 
If  frozen  snowdrops  feel  as  yet  the 

sun 
And  crocus  fires  are  kindling  one  by 

one; 
Sing,  robin,  sing; 
1  still  am  sore  in  doubt  concerning 

spring. 


I  wonder  if  the  springtide  of   this 

year 
Will  bring  another  spring  both  lost 

and  dear; 
If  heart  and  spirit  will  find  out  their 

spring, 
Or  if  the  world  alone  will  bud  and 

sing: 
Sing,  hope,  to  me ; 
Sweet  notes,  my  hope,  soft  notes  for 

memory. 

The  sap  will  surely  quicken  soon  or 

late. 
The  tardiest  bird  will  twitter  to  a 

mate ; 
So    spring  must,  dawn    again  with 

warmth  and  bloom. 
Or  in  this  world,  or  in  the  world  to 

come: 
Sing,  voice  of  spring, 
Till  I  too  blossom,  and  rejoice  and 

sing. 


SONG. 


When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree: 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain: 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember. 

And  haply  may  forget. 


SOUND  SLEEP. 

Sn.MK  are  laugliing,  some  are  weep- 
ing; 

She  is  sleeping,  only  sleeping. 

Round  her  rest  wild  fiowers  are 
creeping; 


466 


BOfiSETTL 


There  the  wind  is  hea]iin!i.  heapintj. 
Sweetest  sweets  of  siuiiiner's  keeitiug, 
IJy  the  cornfields  ripe  fur  reaping. 

There  are  lilies,  and  there  bhishes 
The  ileep  rose,  and  tliere  the  thrushes 
Sing  till  latest  snnliglit  flushes 
In  the  west;  a  fresli  wind  brushes 
Through   the   leaves   while    evening 
hushes. 

There  by  day  the  lark  is  singing 
And  the  grass  and  weeds  are  spring- 
ing; 
There  by  night  the  bat  is  winging; 
There  fur  ever  winds  are  bringing 
Far-olT  chimes  of  church-bells  ringing. 

Night  and  morning,  noon  and  even. 
Their   sound    fills   her  dreams   with 

Heaven : 
The  long  strife  at  length  is  striven: 
Till  her  grave-l)ands  shall  be  riven, 
Such  is  the  good  portion  given 
To  her  soul  at  rest  and  shriven. 


U'lFK    TO   insllASl). 

r.\i;int.\  thf  faults  in  me, 
For  the  love  of  years  ago: 
(looil-bye. 
1  must  drift  across  the  sea, 
1  nni^l  sink  into  the  snow, 
1  nuisl  die. 

You  can  bask  in  tliis  sun. 
You  can  drink  wine,  am!  eat: 
f  Jooil-bye. 
I  must  gin!  myself  and  run, 
Tliougli  wiiii  unready  feet: 
I  nni.st  die. 

Blank  sea  to  sail  nixm, 
(  (dd  lied  to  sleep  in: 
(M)od-liye. 
While  you  clasp  I  mtwt  be  gone 
For  all  your  weeping: 
1  muHi  die. 

A  kiss  for  our  friend. 
And  a  won!  for  two,  —' 
Cfood-byo:  — 


A  lock  that  you  must  send, 
A  kindness  you  must  do. 
1  nnist  die. 

Not  a  woi-d  for  you, 
Not  a  lo<k  or  kiss, 
(iood-bye. 
^Ve.  on(\  must  i)arl  in  twc 
Verily  death  is  this: 
1  must  die. 


AT  HOME. 

When  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turned 
To     seek      the     mucli-freiiuented 
house; 
I  passed  the  door,  and  saw  my  friends 
Feasting    beneath    green    orange 
bouglis; 
From  band  to  h;ind  they  pushed  the 
\\  inc. 
They  smked  tlie  pulp  of  plum  and 
peach ; 
They    sang,    they   jested,   and   they 
laughed. 
For  each  was  loved  of  each. 

I  listened  If)  tlu'ir  honest  chat: 

Said  one:  "  To-morrow  we  shall  be 
I'lod  jilod  along  the  featurele.ss  sands, 

And  coasting  miles  and  ndles  of 
sea." 
Said  one:  "  Before  the  turn  of  tide 

We  will  acbieve  the  eyrie-seat." 
Sail!  one:  "  To-morrow  shall  l»e  like 

To-day,  but  nuich  more  sweet." 

'•  To-morrow,"  said  they,  strong  with 
bo|ie. 

And  dwell  upon  the  pleasant  wxy. 
"  To-morrow,"  cried  they  one  and  all. 

\V'bil<'  no  one  spoke  of  yesterday. 
Their  life  slooil  full  at  blessed  noon; 

1,  only  I.  iiail  passed  away: 
" 'To-niorrow  and  lo-<i»y"  they  cried 

I  \s as  of  yesterda,'. 

I  shivered  coiuforlless,  but  cast 

\o  cbill  a<Toss  the  lableeloth; 
I  all-for;,'otten  shivered,  sad 

'To  slay,  and  yet  to  jjart  how  loth; 
I  passe4|  from  the  familiar  room, 

I  who  from  love  hati  jiassed  away 
Like  the  remembrance  of  n  )^e.st 

TliMt  lurricth  but  a  day. 


ROSSETTl. 


4G1 


Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


THE  SEA-LJAflTS. 

CoNSiDEU  the  sea's  listless  chime: 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible,  — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own 
shell, 
Secret  continuance  sublime 
Is  the  era's  end.     Our  sight  may 

pass 
No   furlong   farther.     Since    time 
Mas, 
This  sound  halh  told  the  lapse  of 
time. 

No  quiet  which  is  death's,  —  it  hath 
The  mournfuluess  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As   the   world's  heart   of    rest  and 
wrath, 
Its  painful  pulse  is  on  the  sands. 
Lost  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands 

f  Jray  and  not  known  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 
Listen  alone  among  the  woods ; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  liave  one  sound  alike  to  the(>. 
llaik     where      the    murmurs    of 

tluongcd  men 
Surge    aiKl    sink   back  and   surge 
again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strewn  beach. 
And  listen  at  its  lips;  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  tluis  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art; 

And  earth,  sea,  man,  are  all  in  each. 


TI//C   liLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

Thk  blessed  daniozel  leaneil  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  heaven; 

Tier  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 

b?li('  ha<l  three  lilies  in  her  hand. 
And    (he   stars   in  her  hair   were 
•even. 


Her  robe,  ungirt  fioni  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce   had  been   a 
day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  (juite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers: 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Hail  counted  as  ten  years. 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 
That  she  was  standing  on ; 

By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 
The  which  is  Space  begun; 

So    high,    that    looking    downward 
thence 
She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  tlie  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  llanie  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  wliere  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deatldess  love's  acclaims 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames; 

And    still    she    bowed    herself   and 
stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm: 
Until  her  bosom  must  hav.'  made 

'J'he  bar-  she  leaiuvl  on  warm. 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  heaven  slie 
saw 
Time  like  a  jjulse  shake  fierce 
Thro'vuh    all  the  worlds.     Iler  gaz« 
still  strove 
Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 


468 


8AN0STER. 


Its  path;  ami  now  sIk"  sjiokt-as  wlien 
The  stare  sani:  in  their  .•"jiiun's. 

"  I  wish  tliat  lio  were  come  to  me. 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
''Have  I  not  prayed  in  heaven?  — 
on  earth. 
Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are     not     two     prayers    a    perfect 
strength  ? 
And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? '' 

She  gazed  and  listened,  and  then  said. 
Less  sail  of  speech  than  mild, — 

"All  this  is  when  he  conies."     She 
ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her.  filled 

With  angels  in  strong  level  tlight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I    saw   her  smile.)     But  soon  their 
path 

Was  vagne  in  distant  splwrcs; 
And  then  she  east  her  arms  along 

Tiie  golden  harriers 
And  laid  lier  face  het ween  her  hands. 

And  wept.     (1  heard  her  tears.) 


LOST  DAYS. 

TiiK  lost  days  of  my  life  nntil  to-day 
What  were  they,  could  1  see  them  on 

the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell '.'   Woulil  they  be  ears 

of  wiieat 
.Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into 

clay  / 
( >r  golden  coins  squandered  and  still 

to  pay  ? 
( )r  drops  of" blood  dabbling  the  guilty 

feet  :< 
Or  such  sj'ilt    water  as    in   dreams 

mnst  cheat 
The  thioals  of  men  in  hell,  who  thirst 

alway  ? 
1    do  not    see  tiicm  here;  but  after 

ileath 
(iod  knows  I  know  tlic  faces  I  shall 

sec. 
Kach  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low 

last  breath: 
••  1  am  thyself,  what  hast  tliou  done 

to  me  ?" 
"  And  I  —and  I— thyself ''— lo,  each 

one  saith  — 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  1" 


Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


UUl!   OHW. 

If  I  hail  known  in  the  morning 

How  wearily  all  the  day         [mind 
The  words  unkind  would  troid)le  my 

That  1  said  when  you  went  away, 
1  had  heen  more  careful,  darling, 

.\orL;iven  yon  needless  pain; 
Uiil  we  vex  uur  own  with   look  and 
tone 

We  may  never  take  back  again ^ 

For  though  in  the  ijuiet  evening 

Von  m;iy  give  nie  llie  ki-s  of  peace, 

Vi-t  it  well  might  be  that  never  for  me 
'I'iic  pain  of  the  heart  shoulil  cea.se I 

How  many  go  forth  at  morning 
Who  never  come  home  at  night! 

And  hearts   have   broken  for  harsh 
Words  H]>i)ken, 
That  sorrow  can  ne'er  set  right. 


We   have  careful    thought    for  the 
stranger, 

.\nd  smiles  for  the  sometime  guest; 
Unl  oft  for  our  own  the  bitter  tone, 

Tliouuh  we  love  our  own  the  best. 
.Mil  lips  with  the  curve  impatient, 

.\lil  brow  with  the  shadoof  scorn, 
"i'wi-rea  cruel  fate,  were  the  night 
too  late 

To  undo  the  work  of  the  mom! 


si'F//in-:\'i'  i\r<>  I  III:  day. 

IJkcaisi;    in    a   day  of   my  days   to 
come 
There  waileth  a  grief  to  be, 
Shall   my  he.irl   grow    faint,  and  my 
lips  be  dumb 
In  this  day  that  Is  bright  for  me  \' 


SARQENT. 


46g 


Because  of  a  subtle  sense  of  pain, 
Like  a  jmlse-beat  threaded  througb 

The  bhss  of  nij  thought,  shall  1  dare 
ri-fr.iiii 
From  ilelight  in  the  pure  and  true  ? 

In  the  hurvi'.st  lieids  shall  1  cease  to 
glean 
Since  the  summer  bloom  has  sped  ? 
Shall  1  veil  mine  eyes  to  the  noon- 
day sheen  [fled  ? 
Since  the  dew  of  the  morn  hath 

Nay,  phantom  ill  with  the  warning 
hand 
Nay,  ghosts  of  the  weary  past, 


Serene,  as  in  armor  of  faith,  I  stand, 
You  may  not  hold  me  fast. 

Your  shadows  across  my  sim  may 
fall. 
But  as  bright  the  sun  shall  shine. 
For    1  walk    in    a  light  ye  cannot 
pall, 
The  light  of  the  King  Divine. 

And  whatever  the  shades  from  day  to 
day, 
I  am  sure  that  His  name  is  Love, 
And  He  never  will  let  me  lose  my 
way 
To  my  rest  in  His  home  above. 


Epes  Sargent. 


SOUL   OF  MY  SOUL. 

Son.  of  my  soul,  impart 

Thy  cner'^y  divine! 
Inform  and  fill  this  languid  h3art. 

And  make  Thy  pin'i)Ose  mine. 
Thy  voice  is  sf  ill  and  small, 

The  world's  is  loud  and  rude; 
Oh,  lot  UK'  liear  Thee  over  all. 

And  be,  through  love,  renewed. 

Give  mo  the  mind  to  seek 

Thy  porfoct  will  to  know; 
And  lead  nio,  tractable  and  meek. 

The  w  ay  I  oui;lit  to  go. 
Make  (|uiok  my  spirit's  ear 

Thy  fainlest  word  to  hear; 
Soul  of  my  soul !   be  ever  near 

To  guide  me  in  my  need. 


A  LIFE   ON   THE  OCEAN   WAVE. 

A  i.iFK  on  the  ocean  wave, 

.V  home  on  the  rolling  deep; 
VV'Imto  I  ho  srattored  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep! 
Like  an  oaglo  (•ag<'d.  I  jiine 

l)n  tliis  dull,  unclianging  shore: 
Oh,  givo  mo  tiio  flashing  brine. 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar! 


Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand, 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft: 
Set  sail!  farewell  to  the  land! 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean-binl  set  free ;  — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view. 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown : 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  orew. 

We'll    say.    Let  the    storm    come 
down ! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be. 

While   the  winds  and   the  waters 
rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  seal 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave ! 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 

"  Forget  me  not  ?  "   Ah,  words  of 
useless  warning 
To  one  whose  heart  is  lienceforth 
memory's  shrine! 
Sooner  the  .skylark  might  forget  the 
morning. 
Than    I   forget  a  look,   a  tone  of 
thine. 


470 


SAIiGFNT. 


Sooner  the  sunflower  might    forget 
to  waken 
When  the  lirst  radiance  lights  the 
eastern  hill, 
Than  1,   by  daily  thoughts  of  thee 
forsaken. 
Feel,  as  they  kindle,  no  expanding 
thrill. 

Oft,  when  at  niij;ht  the  deck  I'm  pac- 
int;  lonely 
Or  when  1  pause  to  watch  some 
fulgent  star. 
Will  (■ontenii)lation  be  retracing  only 
Thy  form,  and   lly  to  greet   thee, 
though  afar. 

When  storms  unleashed,  with  fearful 
clangor  sweeping. 
Drive  our  strained  bark  along  the 
hollowed  sea, 
When  to  the  clouds  the  foam-topped 
waves  are  leaping. 
Even  then  I'll  not  forget,  beloved 
one,  thee  I 

Thy    image    in    my    sorrow-shaded 

hours, 

Will,  like  a  sunburst  on  the  waters, 

shine;  |  (lowers 

'Twill  be  as  grateful  as  the  breath  of 

From   some    green    island    waftetl 

o'er  the  brine. 

And  O  sweet  lady,  when,  from  home 
de]>arted, 
1  rouiit  the  leagues  between  us  with 
a  sigh,  — 
When,  at  the  thought,  perchance  a 
tear  has  9tart«'d, 
May  I  not  ilream  in  heart  thou'rt 
sometimes  ingh? 

Ay,  thou   wilt,  sometimes,  when  the 
wine-eup  passes, 
And  friends  are  gathering  round  in 

f.stal  glee, 

*\  bill-  bright  eyes  (lash,  a.s  flash  the 
briiiiiiiing  ulasscM, 
I-et     sijiii'     Memory     pledge    one 
b«alth  to  me. 

larew.lll     .My    falberland    is    di.saj)- 

liearini;  [sight ; 

Fu-iier  and   faster  fri.ni  my  baflled 


The  winds  rise    wildly,    and    thick 
clouds  are  rearing 
Their  ebon   Ihigs,  that  hasten  on 
the  night, 

Farewell!    The  pilot  leaves  us;  sea- 
ward gliding. 
Our  brave  ship  dashes  through  the 
foamy  swell; 
But  Hope,  forever  faithful  and  abid- 
ing. 
Hears  distant  welcomes  in  this  last 
farewell ! 


A    THOUGHT  OF   THE  PAST. 

I   WAKK.i)  from  slumber  at  the  dead 
of  night. 
Moved   l>y  a  dream  too  heavenly 
fair  to  last  — 
A  dream  of  boyhood's  season  of  de- 
light; 
It  Hashed  along  the  dim  shaijes  of 
the  p.ast; 
And,   as    I    nmsed   upon  its  strange 
appeal. 
Thrilling  me  with  emotions  unde- 
flned, 
Old  memorii's,  bursting  from  Time's 
icy  seal, 
IkUsheil,  like  sun-stricken  fountains 
on  luy  mind. 
.Scenes  where  my  lot  was  cast  in  life's 
young  day; 
My  favorite  haunts,  the  shores,  the 
ancient  woods. 
Where,  with   my  schoolmates,  I  was 
wont  to  slniy : 
(Jreen,  sloiting  lawns,  majestic  so!i. 
tudes — 
All  rose  to  view,  more  lu-auliful  than 

llien;  — 
'Ibcy    fadcj.    anil    I    w.-pt  —  a  child 
airain ! 


77/ a;  si'itisa-ristF.  tn/.L  liF.Tvns. 

TiiK  birds  are  mute,  the  IiKmhu  is  fled, 
Cold,  cold,  the  norib  winds  blow; 

.And  railiant  summer  lietb  dea<l 
Hencaib  a  siiroud  of  snow. 

Sweet  siiMiniiT.'  well  may  we  regret 
Thy  brief,  too  brief  sojcjurn; 


SARGENT. 


471 


But,  while  we  grieve,  we'll  not  forget, 
The  spring-iime  will  j-cturn! 

Dear  friend,  tlia  hills  rise  bare  and 
bleak 
That  bound  thy  future  years; 
Clouds  v(;il  Llie  sky,  no  golden  streak, 

No  rainbow  light  appears; 
Mischance    has    tracked   thy   fairest 
sch'^nics, 
To  wreck  —  to  whelm  —  to  burn ; 
But    wintiy-dark     though     Fortune 
seems, 
The  spring-time  will  return! 

Beloved    one!    where   no   sunbeams 
shine 
Thy  mortal  frame  we  laid ; 
But  oh,  tby  spirit's  form  divine 

AValts  no  sepulchrai  shade! 
No,   by  those  hopes  which,  plumed 
with  light. 
The  sod,  exulting,  spiu'n. 
Love's   paradise    shall    bloom    more 
bright  — 
The  Spring-time  will  leturnl 


A  SUMMER  NOON  AT  SEA. 

A-  HOLY  Stillness,  beautiful  and  deep, 
Reigns  in  the  air  and  brooils  upon 
tbe  ocean; 
The  worn-out  winds  are  quieted  to 
sleep. 
And  rot  a  wave  is  lifted  into  mo- 
tion. 


VI:e  sea-bird  skims  along  the  glassy 
tide. 
With  sidelong  flight  and  wing  of 
glittering  whiteness. 
Or  floats  upon  the  sea,  outstretching 
wide 
A  sheet  of    gold  in   the  meridian 
brightness. 

Our  vessel  lies,  xmstirred  by  wave  or 
blast, 
As  she  were  moored  to  her  dark 
shadow  seeming, 


Her  pennon  twined  around  the  taper- 
ing mast. 
And    her    loose  sails  like  marble 
drapery  gleaming. 

How,  at  an  hour  like  this,  the  unruf- 
fled mind 
Partakes    the  quiet  that   is    sheo 
around  us! 
As  if  the  Power  that  chained  the  im 
patient  wind 
With  the  same  fetter  of  repose  had 
bound  us! 


TROPICAL   WEATHER. 

Now  we're  afloat  upon  the  tropic  sea: 
Here  Summer  holdeth  a  perpetual 
reign. 
How  flash  the  waters  in  their  bound- 
ing glee! 
The  sky's  soft  purple  is  without  a 
stain. 
Full  in  our  wake  the  smooth,  warm 
trade-winds  blowing, 
To  their  unvarying  goal  still  faith- 
ful run ; 
And,  as  we  steer,  with  sails  before 
them  flowing. 
Nearer  the  zenith  daily  climbs  the 
sun, 
The    startled    flying-fish    aroimd   us 
skim. 
Glossed    like    the    humming-bird, 
with  rainbow  dyes; 
And,  as  they  dip  into  the  water's 
brim, 
Swift   in  pursuit  the  preying  dol- 
phin hies. 
All,  all  is  fair;  and  gazing  round,  we 

feel 
Over  the  yielding  sense  the  torrid 
languor  steal. 


CUBA. 


What  soimds  arouse  me    from  my 

slumbers  light  ? 
"  L(ni(l   luj !    (ill    iK.nds,    «/io//.'" 

—  I'm  on  the  deck: 
'Tis  early  dawn:  the  day-star  yet  is 

bright  \ 


472 


SAVAdE. 


A  few  white  vapory  bars  the  zenith 
lli-ck; 
Aiul  lo!  along  the  horizon,  bold  and 
hi.^h. 

The  piuple  hills  of  Cuba!   Hull,  all 
hail! 
Isle   of   undying  verdure,  with   thy 
sky 

Uf  puiest  azure!    Welcoun-,  odor- 
ous gale ! 


O  scene  of  life  and   joy!  thou  art 

iirr.iyed 
In  hues  of  unimagined  loveliness. 
Sing  louder,  bravo  old  mariner!  and 

aid 
My  swelling  heart   its  rapture  to 

express:  |nioru 

Vnr,  from  enchanted  memory,  never 
Shall    fade    this  liawii    sublime,   tUlfi 

fair,  resplendent  shore. 


MiNOT  JuDsoN  Savage. 


PRSCADE Ito   I'EBliLES. 

WiiKKi-;  slopes  the  lieaeh  to  the  si-t- 
ting  sun. 

On  tilt'  I'rseadero  sliore, 
For  ever  and  ever  the  restless  surf 

liolls  up  with  its  sullrii  roar. 

And   grasping  the   pebbles  in  white 
iiamls. 

.\n<i  iliafing  tbrin  together. 
And  griiiijing  them  against  the  clitT> 

In  siiiniiy  and  sunny  wwither, 

It  u'ives  them  never  any  rest; 

All  day,  ail  night,  the  pain 
Of  ilieir  long  agony  sobs  on. 

Sinks,  and  then  swells  agiiiu. 

\iid  tourists  come  from  every  dim<' 
To  search  with  eager  care. 

For  those  whose  rest  has  been  the 
least : 
For  such  have  grown  njost  fair.  . 

i'.iit  yniider,  roiiiid  a  p(»int  of  rm-k. 
In  a  ipliel,  slieltereil  cove, 

Wberi"  storm   ne'er  breaks,  and  sea 
ne'er  <'omeM, 
The  lourJHts  never  rove. 

The  pebbles  lie  'neath  tin?  siinuy  sky 

t/iiiei  forev«'rmore ; 
In  ilreanis  of  everl.'i-sting  jwaee 

Tliey  »leep  upon  the  sliore. 

l»ut  uKly.  and  ron.jh.  and  jau'gcti  still. 

Aie  il.i  \  1  .fi  l.y  the  passing  years  ; 


For    they    miss   the    Ijeat  of   angry 
storms. 
And  the  surf  that  drips  in  tears. 

The  hard  turnutil  of  the  pitiless  sea 
Turns  the  ]>ebble  to  beauteous  gem, 

They  will)  eseapi'  tiie  agony 
Miss  also  the  diadem. 


I.ll'K  IS  DEATH. 

.\i;w  biim;  is  from  being  ceased; 

No  lil"«'  is  bill  by  death; 
Soinetliing's  expiring  everj-where 

'l"o  give  some  other  breath. 

Tbere's  not  a  flower  that  glmls  the 
spring 

Hut  blooms  uiKJU  the  grave 
of  its  dead  i»Hrenl  seed,  in  which 

Its  forms  of  beauty  wave. 

The  oak,  that  like  an  ancient  towec 
Stands  massive  on  the  heath, 

Looks  out  ii|ion  a  living  world. 
Hut  strikes  its  roots  in   leath. 

The  cattle  on  a  thoiisnnd  hills 
(lip  I  lie  sweet  buds  that  ltpow 

Kank  from  the  soil  cnricb<  .1  by  herds 
Sleeping  loiiu  years  below. 

T»Mlay  Is  but  a  slriictiin-  built 

I 'poll  dead  ye«ier<la\  ; 
An«l  I'rogriHs  liewH  her  temple-stoue« 

From  wrecks  of  old  decay. 


SAXE. 


473 


Then  mourn  not  death ;  'tis  but  a  stair 

Built  with  divinest  art, 
Up  which    the    deathless    footsteps 
cHmb 

Of  loved  one    ",vho  depart. 


LIGHT  Oy    THE   CLOUD. 

Therk's  never  au  always  cloudless 
sky, 

There's  never  a  vale  so  fair, 
But  over  it  sometimes  shadows  lie 

in  a  chill  and  songless  air. 

But  never  a  cloud  o'erlumg  the  day, 
And  flung  its  shailows  down, 

But  on  its  iieaven-side  gleamed  some 
ray 
Forming  a  sunshine  crown. 


It  is  dark  on  only  the  downward  side; 

Though  rage  the  tempest  loud, 
And  scatter  its  terrors  far  and  wide, 

There's  light  upon  the  cloud. 

And  often,  when  it  traileth  low, 
Shutting  the  landscape  out. 

And  only  the  chilly  east-winds  blow 
From  the  foggy  seas  of  doubt, 

There'll  cornea  time,  near  the  setting 
sun, 
When  tiie  joys  of  life  seem  few, 
A  rift  will  break  in  the  evening  dim, 
And    the    golden      light      stream 
through. 
And  the  soul  a  -glorious  bridge  will 
make 
Out  of  the  golden  bars. 
And  all  its  priceless  treasures  take 
\\'here  shine  the  eternal  stars. 


John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


THE   OLD  MAS'S  MOTTO. 

''Give  me  a  motto,"  said  a  youth 
To  one  whom  years  had  rendered 
wise ; 
'•  Some  pleasant  thought,  or  weighty 
tnith. 
That  briefest  syllables  comprise; 
Some  word  of  warning  or  of  cheer 
To  grave  upon  my  signet  here. 

"And,   r-;vcrend    father,"   said  the 
boy 
"  Since  life,  they  say,  is  ever  made 
A  mingled  web  of  grief  and  joy ; 
Since   cares  may  come  and   pleas- 
ures fade,  — 
Pray,  let  the  motto  have  a  range 
Of  meaning  matching  cveiy  change." 

"Sooth!"  said  the  sire,  "  methinks 
you  ask 

A  1,'or  something  over-nice. 
That  well  a  finer  brain  might  task.     • 

What  think  you.  lad.  of  this  device 
(Older  tiian  I,  though  I  am  gray). 
"Tis  simple,  — '  This  will  pass  away.' 


"  When    wafted    on    by    Fortune's 
breeze. 
In  endless  peace  thou  seem'st  to 
glide. 
Prepare  betimes  for  rougher  seas. 
And    check  the    boast  of    foo'ish 
pride ; 
Though  smiling  joy  Is  thine  to-day, 
Remember,  'This  will  pass  away!' 

"  When  all  the  sky  is  draped  in  black. 

And,  beaten  by  tempestuous  gales. 
Thy    shuddering    ship   seems   all   a- 
wrack, 

Then  trim  again  thy  tattered  sails: 
To  grim  Despair  be  not  a  prey; 
Bethink  thee,  '  This  will  pass  away.' 

"  Thus,  O  my  son,  be  not  o'er-proud. 
Nor    yet  cast  down;    judge    thou 
aright ; 
When  skies   are    clear.    exi>ect    the 
cloud ; 
In  darkness,  wait  the  coming  light; 
Whatever  be  thy  fate  to-day, 
Bemeniber,  'This  will  pass  away!'  " 


474 


SAXE. 


I'M  GROWIXG   OLD. 

My  days  pass  pleasantly  away; 
My  nights  are  blest  with  sweetest 
sleep: 
I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay; 

I  have  nof-anse  to  mourn  nor  weep; 
My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy: 
My   friends  are  neither  false  nor 
cold. 
And  yet,  of  late,  I  often  sigli,  — 
I'm  growing  old! 

Afy  growing  talk  of  olden  times. 
My  growing  thirst  for  early  news. 

My  grtjwing  apathy  to  rhymes, 
My  growing  love  of  easy  slioes. 

My  growing  hate  of  crowds  and  noise, 
My  growing  fear  of  taking  cold. 

All  whi8i)er,  in  the  plainest  voice, 
I'm  growing  old! 

I'm  growing  fonder  of  my  staff; 

I'm  growing  dimmer  in  tin*  eyes; 
I'm  growing  fainter  in  my  laugh; 

I'm  growing  dt'ciicr  in  my  sighs; 
I'm  growing  careless  of  my  dress; 
I'm  growing  frugal  of  my  gold; 
I'm  growing   wise;    I'm  growing, — 
yes,  — 

I'm  growing  old! 

I  see  It  in  my  changing  taste; 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  hair; 
I  see  It  in  my  growing  waist; 

I  see  it  in  my  grow  ing  heir; 
A  thou><aii(l  signs  proclaim  the  truth, 

As  plain  a-  truth  was  ever  told, 
That,  even  in  my  vaunted  youth 
I'm  growing  old. 

Ah  me!  my  very  laurels  breathe 
The  tale  in  my  nlurianl  ears. 
Ami  rvi-ry  boon  ih''  IIoui-s  beijueatli 
Mut  makes  me  diliior  tr)  the  Years! 
l*/<ii  Flattery's  hoinyid  words  dici.irt! 
The  secret  she  would  fiiin  w  ilbhold; 
.And   t4'lls  me   in  "Mow    voung  von 
are!" 

I  III  growing  old. 

Thanks  for  the  years!  —  whose  rapid 
Might 
My  soinbro  Miute  too  sadly  sings: 


the  gleams  of    golden 
darkness    of    their 
^ut   the 


Thanks    for 
light 
That   tint   the 
wings: 
The  light   that  beams  fron 
sky. 
Those  heavenly  mansions  to  unfold 
Where  all  are  blest,  and  none   may 
sigh, 

"  I'm  growing  old!" 


SOME  WHERE. 

So.Mi;wiii:i!i: — somewhere    a  happy 

clime  there  is, 
A  land  that  knows  not  unavailing 

woes. 
Where  all   the  clashing  elements  of 

this 
Discordant  scene    are    hushed    in 

deep  repose. 
Somewhere  —  somewhere     (ah     me, 

that  land  to  w  in!) 
In  some  bright  realm,  beyond  the 

fan  best  main, 
Wheic   trees  of   knowledge   bear  no 

fruit  of  sin. 
.Vnd  buds  of  pleiisure  blossom  not  in 

]>ain. 
Somewhcn — somewhere  an  end  of 

mortal  strife 
With  our  immortal  yearnings;  nev- 
ermore 
The  outer  warring  with  the  inner  life 
Till  both  are  wretched!     Ah,  that 

happy  shore! 
Where  shines  fur  aye  the  soul's  reful- 

griit  sun, 
And  life  is  love,  and  love  and  joy  are 

one! 


LI  iri.K  JEiaiY.   riiK  miller. 

Bk.nkatii    the  hill    voii  may  sec  the 
mill 
Of    wasting   wood   and   crumbling 
stone; 
'Hie  wbcfl  is  dripping  and  clattering 
still. 
Hut  Jerry,  the  miller,  is  dead   and 
gone. 


SAXbJ. 


475 


Tear  after  year,  early  and  late, 
Alike     in      summer    and     winter 
weather, 
He  pecked  the  stones  and  calked  the 
gate, 
And  mill  and  miller  grew  old  to- 
gether. 

•'Little     Jerry!"  —  'twas     all     the 
same,  — 
They  loved   him  well  who  called 
him  so; 
And  whether  he'd  ever  another  name. 
Nobody  ever  seemed  to  know. 

'Twas,  "Little  Jerry,  come  grind  ihy 
rye"; 
And  "  Little  Jerry,  come  grind  my 
wheat " ; 
And   "Little    Jerry"   was    still  the 
cry. 
From    matron    bold    and    maiden 
sweet. 

'Twas,    "Little    Jerry''     on    every 
fongue. 
And  so  the  simple  truth  was  told; 
For  Jerry  was  little  when    he    was 
yoiuig. 
And  Jerry  was  little  whon  he  was 
old. 

But  what  in  size  he  chanced  to  lack, 
That  Jerry  made  up  in  beiuj;  strong; 

I've  .seen  a  sack  upon  his  back 
As  thick  as  the  miller,  ami  (juite  as 
long. 

Always  busy,  and  always  merry, 
Al\\;ivs  (ioiuii  Lis  very  best, 

A  notable  wag  was  little  Jerry, 
Who  uttered  well  his  standing  jest. 

How  .Jerry  lived  is  known  to  fame. 
But  how  he  died  tliere'.**  none  may 
know; 
One  autunm  day  the  riuiior  came, 
"  Tht    bi'ook   and    .Jiiry   are   very 
!ow." 

And  then  'twas  whispered,  mourn- 
fully, 
The  leesh  had  come,  and  h     was 
dead' 


And  all  the  neighbors  flocked  to  see* 
"Poor  little  Jerry!"  was  all  they 
said. 

They  laid  him  in  his  earthly  bed,  — 
Ilis  millers  coat  his  only  .shroud; 

"  Dust  to  dust,"  the  parson  said, 
And  all  the  people  wept  aloud. 

For  he  had  shunned  the  deadly  sin^ 
And  not  a  grain  of  over-toll 

Had  ever  dropped  into  his  bin, 
To  weigh  upon  his  parting  soul. 

Beneath  the  hill  there  stands  theniui. 

Of    wasting  wood   and    crumblino 

stone;  |  still, 

The  wheel  is  dripping  and  clatte-ing 

But  Jerry,  the  miller,  is  dead  and 

gone 


WOULDN'T  YOU  LIKE   TO  KlTOWi 

A  MADRIG.XL. 

I  KNOW  a  girl  with  teeth  of  pea' , 
And  shoulders  white  as  snow; 

!She  lives,  — ah!  well, 

1  must  not  tell.  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

Her  sunny  hair  is  wondrous  fair 
And  wavy  in  its  flow; 

WIk)  made  it  less 

One  litile  tress.  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  Itnow? 

Her  eyes  are  blue  (celestial  huel, 
And  dazzling  in  their  glow; 

On  \\bom  they  beam 

With  melting  gleam, — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

Her  lips  are  red  and  finely  wed. 
Like  roses  ere  they  blow; 

What  lover  sips 

Those  dewy  lips,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

Her  fingers  are  like  lilies  fair 
When  lilies  fairest  grow; 

W'liose  hand  Miey  press 

With  fond  eare.ss,  — 
\\u"U'i-"l  you  lik^  to  '"Tiow? 


176 


SCOTT. 


fltT  foot  is  small,  and  has  a  fall 
1-ike  snow-flakes  on  the  snow; 

And  wlit'ic  it  i^oos 

IJcneath  Ihf  ro'^c,  — 
\\  oiii(''j'l  yen  like  to  know  ? 

She  has  a  name,  the  sweetest  name 
That  lani^iiaite  ran  bestow. 

"Twoulil  l)n';ik  the  spell 

If  1  shoul.l  tell,— 
Wouldn't  yoii  like  to  know  ? 


TREASURE   IS   UEA\'ES. 

EvKRY  coin  of  earthly  treasure 

W»'  have  lavished,  upon  earth, 
Fur  our  siiiipic  worldly  pit-asure. 

May  he  reekom-d  soiuftidnt;  worth; 
Fcr  tlie  spenilinn  was  not  losing, 

Thoufjh    the     purehase    were     but 
small; 
I'  '.-as  perished  with  tlie  usiuij; 

We  have  had  it,  — that  is  all! 

All  the  Kold  we  leave  behind  us 

When  we  turn  to  dust  iuiain 
(Thouiih  our  avarire  may  blind  us), 

^Ve  have  ^athi-rtMl  (juite  iti  vain; 
JSmkc  wc  neither  can  direct  it. 

My  till"  winds  of  fortune  tossed, 
Nor  in  oilier  worlils  expect  it; 

What  we  hoarded,  we  have  lost. 


But  each  merciful  oblation  — 

(See<l  of  pity  wisely  sown). 
What  we  nave  in  selt-ne,i;ation, 

W^e  may  safely  call  our  own; 
For  the  treasiue  freely  t;iven 

Is  the  treasure  that  we  hoard. 
Since  the  angels  kee]>  in  Heaven 

What  is  lent  unto  the  Loixl! 


TO  MY  I.OVE. 
"  Da  lui  biutlii."  —  Catillis. 

Kiss   me    softly,    and    sjx'ak   to    me 
low; 
Malice  has  ever  a  vigilant  ear; 
What  if  Malice  were  lurking  near? 
Kiss  me,  deiti"! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  nie  low; 

Envy  loo  has  a  watchfid  ear; 

What  if  Knvy  should  chance  to  hear? 
Kiss  me,  dear! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low; 
Trust  me,  darling,  the  time  is  near 
When    we  may  love  with  never  a 
fear; 

Kiss  me,  dear! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low- 


Si  R  Walter  Scott. 


[Fmm  The  l.mhj  of  the  lAike.] 
.sCMMEti  DA  »'S  A  V  I.Oi  II  KA  TRI.S  E. 

liiK  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 
To    p  irple    changed     Lodi    Katrine 

blue; 
.Miiilly  aiiil  soft  tlie  western  breez** 
Just  kissed   Ibelake.  jusi   stirreil  tin" 

I  reas. 
And  Ihe  pleascrl  lake,  like  maiden  coy. 
Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy; 
The  moinil.'iiii  simdows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest; 


III  bright  tmcertainfy  they  He, 
I.iki-  fuiiire  joys  to  Kuniy's  eye. 
The  walerdily  to  the  light 
Her  cbali<-e  reared  of  silver  bright; 
The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn. 
Hegemmed   with  dew-<lroi)9,  led  \\"t 

fawn ; 
The    gniy    mist     left    the    moiiir. 

side. 
The    torrent    showed    \\.»   gliatenir' 

I)rlde; 
Invisible  in  lleckid  .sky, 
The  lark  sent  down  Ii.t  revellj 


SCOTT. 


477 


The    blackbird  .  and     the     speckled 

thrush 
Good-iiionow  gave  from   brake  and 

bnsh : 
In  answer  cooed  the  cushat  dove 
Her    notes  of  peace,  and  rest,   and 

love. 


\_From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.] 
A  SCENE  IN  THE   HIGHLANDS. 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way; 
Each  punile  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  tire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below, 
Wliere  twined   the  path   in   shadow 

hid, 
Roimd  many  a  rocky  pyramid. 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle; 
Round  many  an  insulatinl  mass, 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass. 
Huge   as   the  tower   which  builders 

vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
The  rocky  summit,  split  and  rent. 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret, 
Willi  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked 
Or  mosque  of  Eastern  architect. 
Nor  were    these    earth-born    castles 

bare. 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  dis- 
played. 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade, 
All    twinkling    with    the   deivdrops 

sheen. 
The  biier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green, 
And  creeping  shrubs,   of  thousand 

dyes. 
Waved   in  the  west-wind's  summer 

sighs. 

Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild. 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's 

child, 
llfte  eglantine  embalmed  the  air. 
Hawthorn  and  hazfl  mingled  there; 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower, 
Found  in  i-ich  clilf  a  narrow  bower; 


Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by 

side, 
E^mblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  evei-y 

stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  evei^ 

breath. 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath; 
Aloft  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,   and  frequent 

flung. 
Where  seemed  the  cliffs  to  meet  on 

high, 
His    boughs  athwart  the  narrowed 

sky. 
Highest  of    all,  where  white  peaks 

glanced. 
Where    glist'ning   streamers   waved 

and  danced. 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might 

seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 


[From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.] 
A  PICTURE   OF  ELLEN. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 
Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face! 
What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent 

frown. 
Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with 

brown,  — 
The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and 

light, 
Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright 
Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 
Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow: 
What    though    no    rule    of    courtly 

grace 
To  measured  mood  had  trained  hci 

jiace,  — 
A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true. 
Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashr  ' 

the  dew ; 
E'en  the    slight  harebell   raised   i'fl 

head. 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread : 


478 


SCOTT. 


What  though  upon  her  speech  there 

hunir 
The     accents     of      her     mountain 

ttmgue,  — 
TTiose  silver  sounds  so  soft,  so  dear, 
llie  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear  I 


[From  T/it  Liidij  of  the  I.^iAc] 
P.\ri:i!.\AL   LOVE. 

SoMK  feelings  are  to  mortals  piven, 
Witli    less    of    earth  in   them   tlian 

ln-aven: 
And  if  ilit-ro  be  a  human  t<'ar 
From    jiassion's    dross    refined    and 

clear, 
A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek, 
It  would  not  ^tain  an  anj^rl's  clicck, 
"I'ls  tbal  wbich  jtious  fathers  hlied 
L'pon  a  duteous  daughter's  head! 


[Fmin  Th>  Lay  of  the  Jxut  Minstrtl.] 

MKLIIOSE   .UlJl/.y  liY  MOOS- 
LlClir. 

Ik  thou  woidd'sl  view  fair   Melrose 

aright, 
(Jo  visit  it  by  the  juile  nu>(inli;.'hl ; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
(iild,  i)Ul  to  lliiut.  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  Ijioken  arches  are  l)iaek  in 

night. 
And    eaeh    shafted    oriel    glimmers 

white; 
When    the    cold     light's     uneetia'm 

shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower;  i 
When    biUlress  and    buttress,    alter- 
nately. 
Reem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 
Wlu-n  silver  edges  the  imagery. 
And   the  scrolls    that    teacii   thee  t«) 

liv(!  and  die; 
Wlien  distant  Tweed  is  heaid  to  rave. 
And  the  owlet  U>  hoot  o'er  the  dead 

man's  gnive, 
Tlieii  ^o  —  but  [;o  abme  the  wJiile  — 
'I'heii  view  St.  David's  ruin«'  I  pile; 
And,  home  returning.  s<M»thl>  swear, 
Wm  neviT  Hcuiiu  ho  sad  and  fairl 


[Fi-om  The  Lap  of  the  Lout  Mingln'l.] 
LOVE. 

In  peace.  Love  tunes  the  shepherd'i 

reed ; 
In  war  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed; 
In  iialN,  in  gay  attire  is  seen; 
In  hamlets,  dances  on  the  green. 
Love  lule-;  the  court,  the  camp,  the 

grONe. 

And  men  below,  and  saints  above; 
For  love    is  heaven,  and    heaven    is 
love. 

True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has 

given 
To  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven; 
it  is  not  fantasy's  hot  fire, 
Whose  wishes,  soon  as  granted 

fly; 

It  liveth  not  in  fierce  desire. 
With  de.-id  desire  it  doth  not  die; 
It  is  the  secH't  symiialhy, 
Tlie  silver  link,  the  .silken  tie. 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to 

mind. 
In  body  and  in  soul  can  bind. 


[From  The  Laij  of  the  IaisI  Mins.rel.] 
lii:KATIir.S    THE  UK    THE  MAX. 

BitKATiiKs  there  the  man,  with  soul 

so  dead. 
Who  ne\er  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him 

binned, 
Aslioiue  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned. 
From     wandering    on     a     foreign 

.strand! 
If  such  there  breatlui,  go,  mark  him 

well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  rai)tures  swell: 
High    though   his    titles,    ])roud   his 

name,  |claim: 

IJoundless   his   wealth    as  wish    ean 
I)espil<-  those  titles,  power  ami  pelf. 
Tin-  wreteh,  eonieulred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And.  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To    the    vile   diLsl    from  whence  In* 

spiiuig, 
Uuwepl,  luthonored,  and  imsuny. 


SCOTT. 


479 


O Caledonia!  stern  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 
Land   of   brown   heath   and   shaggj' 

wood, 
Land  of  the  moinitain  and  the  flood, 
Land  of  my  sires!  what  mortal  han(i 
Can  e'er  mitie  the  (ilial  band, 
Tliat  knits  nic  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 
Still,    as    I    view    each  well-known 

scene, 
Think  what  is  now,  and  Avhat  hath 

been. 
Seems,  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 
Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams 

were  left; 
And  thus  1  love  them  better  still 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 
By    Yarrow's    stream    still    let    me 

stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble 

way; 
Still   feel  the  breeze  down    Ettrick 

break. 
Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek; 
Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  Stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 
The    bard    may    draw    his    parting 

groan. 


[  From  Ivanhoe.i 
REBECCA'S  HYMN. 

WiiEX  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
IJy  day.  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 
And  trump  and  timbrel  answered 
keen, 
A.nd  Zion's  daughters  poiu-ed  their 
lays,  jtwecn. 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  be- 
No  portents  now  our  fo(\s  amaze, 
i""orsaken  Israel  wanders  l(;ue; 
Our   fathers  would    not  know   Tl.y 
ways, 
•\nd  Thou  hast  left  them  ..u  iheir 
own. 


But   present  still,    though   now  un- 
seen! 
When  brightly  shines  the  prosper- 
ous day. 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And,  oh,   when  stoops  on  Judah'i 
path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent 
night. 
Be    Thou,    long    suffering,    slow  to 
wrath, 
A  burning  and  a  shining  light! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams. 
The    tyrant's-  jest,   the    Gentile's 
scorn ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 
And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and 
horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of 
goat, 
The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize; 
A  contrit(>  heart,  a  hiuuble  thought, 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


\_Prom  Bed  gaunt  let.] 
PAYMENT  IN  STORE. 

As  lords  their  laborers'  hire  delay, 
Fate  quits  our  toil  with  hopes  to 
come. 

Which,  if  far  short  of  present  pay. 
Still  owns  a  debt  and  names  a  sum. 

Quit  not  the  pledge,  frail  sufferer, 
then, 

Although  a  distant  date  be  given; 
Despair  is  treason  towards  men, 

And  blasphemy  to  Heaven. 


[From  The  Betrothed.] 

FAITH  IN   UNFAITH. 

Woman's  faith  and  woman's  trust 
AVritc  the  characters  in  dust : 
Stamp  tliem  on  the  running  stream, 
Print  them  on  the  moon's  pale  beam. 
And  each  evanescent  letter 
Shall  be  clearer,  finner.  better, 
And  more  iiermanent,  1  Meen, 
Than  the  thing  those  letters  meaa 


SCOTT. 


1  nave  straiiK'd  the  spidt-r's  llin-ail 
M.riiinst  till'  ]ir()iuise  of  :i  iiiaiti: 
1  liavt'  wciglu'd  ii  iiruin  of  saiitl 
'(iaiiist  li(?r  pli.nht  of  heart  and  luind  ; 
1  told  my  trill*  love  of  the  token 
How  lier  faith  jtroved  light  and  her 

word  was  hiokcn ; 
Again  her  word  and  truth  she  pliglit. 
And  1  believed  thtMn  again  ere  night. 


WANDIilil.SG    WILLIE. 

An.  joy  was  hereft  me  the  day  thai 

yon  left  me, 

And  eliinlx'd  the  tall  ves.sel  to  sail 

yon  high  sea;  |it, 

O  weary  hi'tide  it!  I  wandered  beside 

xvuil    hannt'd     it    for    parting    my 

Willie  and  me. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  hast  th<m  followed 
thy  fortune. 
Oft  fought  the  squadrons  of  Franee 
and  of  .S))ain; 
Ae  kiss  of  welcome's  worth  twenty  at 
parting. 
Now  1  hae  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

When  the  sky  it  was  mirk,  and  the 
winds  they  were  wailinp, 
I  sat  on  the  lieaeh  wl'  the  tear  in 
my  ee, 
And  thought  of  the  hark  where  my 
Willie  was  sailing. 
And  wi  died  that  the  tempest  could 
a'  bl.iw  on  nu-. 

N'ow  that  thy  gallant   ship  rides  at 
her  moorings. 
Now  that  my  wanden^r's  in  safely 
at  huiiie. 
Music  t4>  nie  were  the  wildest  wimls' 
roaring, 
That  e'er  o'er  Ineh-Keith  drove  the 
dark  oeean  faeni. 

>V'!ien  tlie  lights  they  did  h1a/A*,  and 
the  guns  they  did  rattle, 
And   hiithe  was  ea«-h  heart  for  the 
great  viilory,  |baltli'. 

'n  seer«-i    I   wtpt   for  the  daiigent  of 
And  lliy  ulory  itn-lf  was  scarce  com- 
fort for  me. 


But  now  nbalt  thou  t«'ll,  while  I  ea- 
gerly listen, 
Of  each  bold  adventure,  and  every 
liiave  scar; 
And  oust  nie.  III  smile,  though  my 
odw  tliey  may  glisten : 
Fo;  gweet  after  danger's  the  tale  of 
the  war. 

And  oh.  how  we  doubt  when  there's 
distance  'tween  lovei-s. 
When  there's  naething  to  speak  to 
tlie  heart  thro'  the  ee; 
How  often  the  kindest  and  warmest 
jirove  rovers. 
And  the  love  of  tlie  faithf  ullest  ebbs 
like  the  sea. 

I'ill,  at  times  —  could  I  help  it'? — I 
pined  and  I  pondered 
If  love  could  change  notes  like  the 
bird  on  the  tree  — 
Now  I'll  ne'er  ask  if  thine  eyea  may 
have  wandered. 
Enough,  thy   leal    heart  has   been 
constant  to  me. 


////;  su\  i/'ox  riiK  in:ii;i>L.ny 

III!  I.. 

'rill,  sun  u]>on  the  Weiiilla\>   Hill. 

In  Ktlrick's  vale  is  sinking  ssveel ; 
The  western  wind  Is  hush  aixl  still. 

The  lake  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 
Yet  not  the  laniNiap<'  to  mine  eye 

Kears  those  bright   hues  that  once 
it  bore; 
Though  evening,  with  her  richest  dye, 

Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Kitrick's 
shore. 

With  listless  look  along  thy  ]>Iain, 

I  see  Tweed's  silver  ciiireul  glide, 
And  cojiliy  mark  ihe  holy  fane 

Of  .Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 
I'hi'  •iniei  lake,  the  balmy  air. 

The  hill,  Ihe  stream,  the  tower,  the 
tree,  — 
.\re  they  still  such  as  once  tliev  were  ? 

Ur  Is  the  dreary  change  in  me  'f 


SCOTT. 


481 


Alas,  ilie  \vari)»:d  und  broken  board, 

How  cau  it  boar  llu;  painter's  dyo! 
Thf  liarp   of  strained  and  timeless 
chord, 

How  to  the  minstrel's  skill  reply! 
To  aching  eyes  each  landscape  lowers. 

To  feverish  pulse  each  gale  blows 
chill; 
And  Araby's  or  Eden's  bowers 

Were  barren  as  ihis  moorland  hill. 


THE    VIOLET. 

The  violet  in  her  greenwood  bower. 
Where  birchen  boughs  with  hazels 
mingle. 

May  boastitself  the  fairest  flower 
In  glen,  or  copse,  or  forest  dingle. 

Though  fair  her  gems  of  azure  hue. 
Beneath  the  dewdrop's  weight  re- 
clining; 
I've  seen  an  eye  of  lovelier  hue, 
More  sweet  through  watery  lustre 
shining. 

The  summer  smi  that  dew  shall  dry, 
Ere  yet  the   day  be  past   its  mor- 
row : 
Nor  longer  in  my  false  love's  eye 
Remained  the  tear  of  parting  sor- 
row. 


HELVELLYN. 

1  ci-lMBKi)    the    dark  brow  of  the 

mighty  Helvellyn, 
Lakes  ami  mountains  beneath  me 

gleamed  misty  and  wide; 
All  was  still,  save  by  tits,  when  the 

eagle  was  yelling. 
And  starting  aromid  me  the  echoes 

replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  roimd  the 

Ked-tarn  was  bending, 
And  Catcheilicara  its  left  verge  was 

defending, 
f>ne  hug(!  nameless  rock  in  the  front 

was  ascending. 
When  1  marked  the  sml  spot  where 

tliu  wanderer  had  died. 


Dark  green  was  the  spot  'mid  the 
brown  mountain-heather. 
Where  the  pilgrim  of   nature   lay 
stretched  in  decay, 

Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcas!,  aban- 
doned to  weather. 
Till  the  moimtain  winds  wasted  the 
tenantless  clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely 
extended. 

For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  fa- 
vorite attended. 

The  much-loved  remains  of  her  mas- 
ter defended. 
And    chased,  the  hill-fox  and  the 
raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his 

silence  was  slmnber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment, 

how  oft  didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks 

didst  thou  number, 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend 

of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  oh !  was  it  meet,  that  —  no  re- 
quiem read  o'er  him  — 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to 

deplore  him. 
And    thou,    little    guardian,     alone 

stretched  before   him  — 
Unhonored  the  pilgrim  from  life 

should  depart  ? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peas- 
ant has  yielded. 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  roimd  the 

dim-lighted  hall; 
With  scutcheons  of  silver  tbs  cothu 

is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  can 

opied  pall: 
Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight. 

the  torches  are  gleaming: 
In  the    proudly -arched  chapel   th( 

banners  are  l)eaming. 
Far    adown    the   long  aisles    sacred 

nuisic  is  streaming. 
Lamenting  a   chief  of  the   people 

shouhl  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of 
nature. 
To  lay  tlown  thy  head  like  the  meek 
mountain  lamb, 


482 


SEAVER. 


When,  wlldpreJ,  he  drops  fi-oin  some  Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gniy  plover 

'clitf  hi.'je  in  stature.  llyiui:. 

And  dra\\s  his  Lt^  .-,ub  l»y  the  side  Willi  one  faithful  friend  hm  lo  wit- 

of  lus  <lani.  ness  thy  dyiiiu. 

•  ••  '   more  .stalely  thy  couch  by  this  In  the  arms  of  llelvellyn  and  Cat 

desert  lake  IviaM.  chedicam. 


Emily  Seaver. 


TfJK  ItOSt    O)'  JKlilCHO. 

Ani*  was  it  not  i-noiigh  that,  meekly 
growing, 
Iniaek  of  all  things  wherein  plants 
deligiit, 
Cool  dews,  rifh  soil,  and  gentle  show- 
ers ndreshiiig. 
It  yet  eotdd  blossom   into  beauty 
bright? 

In  the  hot  desert,  in  therorky  crevice. 
Jiy  dusty  waysides,  on  the  nibbish 
hi-aji. 
Where'er  the  Lordapi>oinls,  itsmiles, 
ln'li<'vin!.' 
That    where   He  plantcth,    He  will 
surely  keep! 

Xay,  this   is    not   enotigh,  the    (ier<i' 

sirfK'co  , 

Must  root  it  uji,  and  sweep  it  from  j 

its  hoiiii'.  Idcsi'it.  I 

And   l)i'ar  it   ndhs  away,   aeross  th  •  j 

TIk'Ii  lliiii;  it.  nitldt>^.  on  th-    .\iii!<'  , 

Hi  a-foam.  . 

Do  th."-  ''iMs  end,  tliosi-  livrs  of  i>a-  \ 
li«-::t  duly. 
1  i.:it  grow,  through  every  grief  and 
pain  mon-  fair.  — 
An-  Iht-y  thus  east   aside,  at    lengtli, 
forgotten  (• 
Ah    no!    my   story    is    not   ( ndcd 
llii-re. 

Those  roots  upon  the  waves  of  oc4uu 
float  itl^, 
That  ill  I lifir  desert  liouiei)  no  iuoin- 
lure  knew. 


Nou,;.;  the  fount  tloir  life-iongthirst 
are  ijuenehiiij;. 
Whence  ri>e   the  gentle  showers, 
the  nightly  dew. 

They  drink   the  i|uickening  streauis 
through  I'Vfiy   fibre. 
Until   with   hidden  life  each  8ee<l 
shall  swell; 
Then    conir   the    wimls  of   God,  his 
word  fullilling. 
Anil    liear   them   back,   where   \lo 
shall  please,  to  dwell. 

1  hus  live  me«'k  spirits,  duly  schooled 
to  duty.  — 
I  ill'  uhirlwind  storm  may  sweep 
IIkiii  from  their  place; 
What     matter    if    by    this    aflliction 
driven 
Straight  to  their  (iod,  the  fountain 
of  all  grac»'  i* 

And  when,  at   leiigih.  the  final  triul 
Cometh. 
Though  hurled  lo  unknown  worlds, 
they  shall  not  die; 
Home    not    by    winds  of   v.  rath,  but 
(tod's  ow  II  aiiLTfls, 

They  f I  upon  His  love  and  d.vc, 

beiirath  His  eye. 

Till  by  theangi-l  of  tin-  reHiirnciion. 
One   awful    blast    lliioiigh   ln-aven 
and  <  .'irlh  In-  blown; 
'I'lieii  soul  ami  body,  mi't  no  more  to 

MindiT. 

That  all  tiod's  ways  are  true  atiu 
just  shall  own! 


SEW  ALL. 


4S3 


Harriet  Winslow  Sewall. 


WHY  THUS  Loyaiyo? 

Why  thus  ionfring,  thus  forever  sigh- 
ing 
Fort  lis  far-off,  unattained  and  dim, 
Wliile  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee 
lying. 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Would'st    thou   listen   to  its    gentle 
teaching. 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would 
still. 
Leaf  and   flo«er  and  laden  bee  are 
preaching. 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble, 
first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around 

thee 

Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst 

throw,  ['.bee 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound 

To  sumc  little  world  through  weal 

and  woe; 

If  no  dear  eyes  th>  fond  love  can 

brighten. 

No  ^'ond  voices  answer  to  thine  own. 

If  n,^    l)rother's    sorrow    tliou    canst 

li-li  en 

liy  daily  symi)athy  and  gentle  lone. 

Sr>»   by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's 
ai>i)lauses. 
Mot  by  works  that  win  thee  workl 
renown. 


Nut  ljy  niariyrdom  or  vaunted  crosauu, 
Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  im- 
mortal crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  ,\.i,\ 
lonely,    -. 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  j^i-.r; 
Thou   wilt    find    by   hearty   slnvins 
only, 
A)id  truly  loving,  thou  canst  ti'uly 
live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 
\Vhen  all  Nature  hails  the  lord  •;' 
light, 
And    bis  smile,    nor  low   nor    lofty 
s<'orning, 
tiladdens  hall  and  hovel,  vale  and 
height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  lield  and 
forest, 
Proud    proprietors    in  pomp   may 
shine. 
But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest, 
Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world 
is  thine. 

Yet  if  through  earth's  wide  domain? 
thou  rovest, 
Sighing   that    they   are  not   thine 
alone, 
Xot  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou 
lovest, 
And   their  beauty  and  tny  wealth 
are  gone. 


iS4 


SjlAi\j^cii^ARE. 


William  Shakespeare. 


IsBL'cond  childishness,  jind  imri  .  ; - 

livion: 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  t»iste,8aii« 

everything. 


[FYom  Js    Vou  lAkt  It.] 

LIFE'S    TIIKATIIK. 

Al.i.  the  world's  a  stage. 
Ami  all  the  men  and  women  merely 

playei-s, 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  en- 

traTUM's. 
And  oni-  man  in  his  time  jilays  many 

parl.s. 
His  a;-ts  heing  seven  ages.     At    lirst 

the  infant,  jarms. 

Mcwlinu   and    i>iiking  in  his  nurse's 
And   then,   the   whining   sehool-boy, 

with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping 

lilie  snail 
U, nwiilingly    to    school.     And    then, 

I  lie  lover, 
.Sighing   like   furnace,   with  a  woful 

ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.   Then, 

the  sdldier, 
Full   of   strange  oaths,  and  beanied 

like  the  pan'.. 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  (juiek 

in  «|narre|; 
Seeking  the  bultble  reputation 
Kven   in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And 

then,  the  j  isljec. 
In  fair  round  be|  y.  with  good  cai)on 

lined. 
With  eyes  seven;  ami  bean!  of  fonnal 

cut. 
Full    of  wise   .saws   and    modern    in- 

.slances; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth 

age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  .s1i|>perei|  ]>antaloon, 
With  speclacics  on  nose,  and   pouch 

on  side; 
HIh  youthfid  ho.ie  well  saved,  a  world 

t.oo  wide 
For  his  shtnuk  shankH;  and   his  big 

manly  \oice. 
Turning    again      tuwanis      childish 

triable,  pi|M-s 
And    whistles    in    his   soimd.     Last 

sieiH-  of  all  summation 

That  ends  Ibis  slrnngc;  "veniful  hix-  j  Devouilv  to  bi-  wished.     To  dio — to 

lory,  '  .sleep  — 


[From  As    You  Lil'f  It.\ 

isanATiTunE. 

Blow,  lilow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
.Vs  man's  ingratitude! 
Thy  tootli  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
.Vlthough  tliy  breath  be  mde. 
Heigh-ho  I  sing,   heigh-ho!  unto   the 

green  holly: 
Mo.sl   frienilship    is    feigning,   most 
loving  mere  folly: 

hien  heigh-ho!  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

.\s  benefits  forgot ! 
Thougli  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sling  is  not  so  shaq) 

.\s  friend  remembered  not. 
•'Heigh-ho:  sing  heigh-ho,  Ac." 


1  Fr„m   lliimlrt.] 
TO  UK,  OK  SOT  TO  BE. 

To  ni:.  or  not  to  l>e,  that  is  Ibi-iiues- 

tion  — 
Whether  'tis   nobler  in  the  miml  to 

HUlfer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 

fortime. 
Or    to  lake   arms   against   a  sea  of 

troubles. 
And,    by   opposing  end  thorn 'i*     To 

die  —  to  sleep  —  lenil 

No  more;  and   by   a  sleej)  to  .say  we 
The    hearlacbe.    ami    (lie    thousand 

natural  shocks 
That    flesli    is  beir   lol  — 'tis  a  eon- 


SHAKESPh'ARE. 


485 


To  sleep  ! — perchance  to  dream! — 

ay,  there's  the  rub; 
For    in    that   sleep  of    death,  what 

dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuflled  off  this  mortal 

coil, 
Must    give    us    pause  —  there's    the 

respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life: 
For  who  would   hear  the  whips  and 

scorns  of  time, 
The   oppressor's  Avrong,   the    proud 

man's  contumely. 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's 

delay,  • 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spm-ns 
That  patient  merit  of  th'  unworthy 

takes. 
When  he  himself  might  his  quielu.s 

make 
With   a  bare   bodkin!     Who    would 

fardels  Ijear,  [life, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after 

death  — 
That     uniliscovered     country     from 

whose  boiiin 
Jf 0   traveller   returns,  —  puzzles   the 

will. 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills 

we  have,  [of  ? 

Than  ily  to  others  that  we  know  not 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards 

of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of 

thought. 
And   enterprises  of    great   pith  and 

moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn 

awry,  ' 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


[From  Hamlet.] 

GOOD  COUNSEL  OF  POLONIUS  TO 
LAERTES. 

Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means 

vulgar, 
i'hc    friends    thou    hast,   and   their 

adf>ption  tried. 
Grapple  them  to  Ihy  soul  with  hooks 

of  steel ; 


But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  enter- 

tertainment 
Of  each  new-hatched,  unpledged  com 

rade.     Eeware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in 
IJear  it,  that  the  opposer  may  beware 

of  thee. 
Give  eveiy  man    thine  ear,  but  few 

thy  voice; 
Take    each   man's   censure,   but  re- 
serve thy  judgment, 
("ostly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  expressed  in  fancy;  rich,  not 

gaudy ; 
For  the  ai)parel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank 

and  station. 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief 

in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be; 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself    and 

friend; 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  hus- 

bandi7. 
This  above  all.  —  To  thine  own  self 

be  true ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the 

day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any 

man! 


{From  The  Merchant  of  ]'enice.] 

FALSE  APPEARANCES. 

The   Avorld   is   still  deceived  with 
ornament. 

In  law,  w  hat  plea  so  ta.inted  and  cor- 
rupt. 

But  being  seasoned  with  a  giaciousi 
voice. 

Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?    In  re- 
ligion. 

What  damned  eiTor,  but  some  sober 
brow 

Will  bless  it,  and  appro\e  it  with  a 
text. 

Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  orna- 
ment ? 

There  is  no  voice  so  simple,  but  as- 
sumes 

Some  mark  of  virtue  on  its  outward 
parts. 

How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are 
all  as  false 


!><6 


sn.\Ki:^rEAiiE. 


As  stjiii^  of  sand,  wear  yot  upon  their  ^  It  is  pnthronf'il  in  tlio  hearts  of  kings 


■liins 
Th«'  hoards  of  Ih'rculos  and  frowning 

Mars; 
Wlio,  inward    searched,   liave  livers 

wliitc  as  niill<  I 
And  these  assume  l)Ut  valor's  excre- 
ment. 
To  render  tliern  redouhted.     Look  on 

beauty, 
And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchased  by 

the  weight, 
Wliich   llurein   works   a   miracle  in 

nauii'e, 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most 

of  it. 
-()  are  those  crispbd,  snaky,  golden 

lock: 


It  is  an  attribute  to  Gml  himself; 
And  eartlijy  power  doth  then  sho\* 

likesl  (iod's. 
When  mercy  seasons  justice. 


[From  Troilus  and  Ctr«$itta.] 

COXS'JAXT    EFFORT    NKCESSAR1 
TO  Siri'OnT  FAME. 

TiMic  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at 
Ids  back, 
AVherein  lie  i>uts  alms  for  ol)livion, 
A   great-sizetl    monster  for   ingrati- 
tudes : 
Those  scraiis  arc  good  deeds  past: 
whicli  are  devoured 


Whicli  make  su<h  wanton   gambols    As  fast  as  they  ar«»  made,  forgot  as 

with  tlie  wind  I  soon 

I'pon  suppose  I  fairness,  often  known    As  done:  I'erseveranee,  dear  my  lord, 


To  lie  the  dowry  of  a  second  head 

The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sep- 
ulchre. 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiI5<i 
shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea;  the  beau- 
teous scarf 

Veiling  an  Indian  beauty;  in  a  word, 

TIk'  seeming  truth  which  cmining 
tinn's  jmt  on 

To  ml  rap  the  wisest. 


[From  The  .Mvnhaiit  of  Venice.'] 

MRIKY. 

TnKquality  of  lui-ri-y  is  notstraim- 1 ; 

1;    dropp«th   a>  the.  gentle  niin  fpim 

heaven 
I'lKju  the  place  beneath.     It  is  twice 

blrsM'd; 

li    lili-N.ili   hiiu  that  gives,  and  him 

tli:it  lak<-s. 
'Tis  ndghiiesl  in  the  mightiest;  it  be- 

cf)m<'s 
The  thront'.l  nionandi  Ix'tter  than  his 

crown : 
His  SCI  I  it  n- shows  the  force  of  tempo 

ral  iMiwer, 
The  ullribiite  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit   the  dnad  and   f<-ar 

of  kings. 
I'.ul     mercy    is    above    the    sceptred 

sway; 


Keeps  honor  bright:  To  have  done, 

is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,   like  a  rusty 

mail 
In  monumental  mockery.   Take  the 

instant  way;  • 
For  honor  travels  in  a  strait  so  nar- 
row, 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast:  keep 

tlu'u  the  jiath; 
For  emidation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  l>y  one  jiui-sue.    If  you  give 

way. 
<  ir  hedge  aside  from  thi-  <Iireet  forth- 
right. 
Like  to  an  enlen-d  tide,  they  all  ni>li 

by. 
And  leave  you  bindmosi ;  — 
Or,  like  a  liallanl  horse  fallen  in  first 

rank. 
Lie  there  for  pavement   to  the  abject 

rear, 
(Vernni  ami  t  ranipled  on.   Then  what 

they  do  in  presiMit, 
■f bough  less  than  youi-s  In  past,  nuist 

o'erIo|i  yours: 
I''or  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host 
'I'liat  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest 

by  the  band; 
And  with  bis  arms  outstrctche*!,  aa 

hi!  would  fly, 
(Srasps  in  tin-  eoini-r.     Welcome  evci 

smiles 


SHAKEHrEARE. 


48i 


And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.  O, 
let  not  virtue  seek 

Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was; 

For  beauty,  wit, 

High  birth,  vigor  of  bone,  desert  in 
service. 

Love,  friendship,  ciiarity,  are  sub- 
jects all 

To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 

One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole 
world  kin,  — 

That  all  with  one  consent,  praise  new- 
born gauds, 

Though  they  are  made  and  niould-Hl 
of  things  past; 

And  give  to  <Iust,  that  is  a  little  gilt, 

More  laud  tlian  gilt  o'er-dusted. 

The  i^resent  eye  praises  the  present 
object : 

Then  marvel  not,  thou  great  and 
complete  man. 

That  all  the  Greeks  begin  to  worship 
Ajax; 

Since  things  in  motion  soon(>r  catch 
the  eye 

Thau  what  not  stii's. 


[From  Uenry  Vfll.] 
LIFE'S    VICISSITUDES. 

Fakkwell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my 

greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man:  To-day  he 

puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-niorrow 

Ijios.soms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick 

uiJon  him ; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing 

frost, 
And  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man, 

fiUl  surely 
His  gi-eatness  is  a  ripening,  nips  his 

root 
And  tlien  he  falls  as  I  do.     I  have 

ventuix'd, 
Like  little  wanton  boys,  that  swim  on 

bladders, 
These   many    summers  in  a   sea   of 

glory ; 
But  far  licyond   my  depth:  my  high- 
blown pride 


At  length  broke  imder  me;  and  now 

has  left  me. 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the 

mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever 

hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I 

hate  ye ! 


{From  Measure  for  Measure. "] 
FEAE   OF  DEATH. 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not 

where ;    , 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 
'i'his  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
\  kneaded  clod;  and  the  delighted 

spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed 

ice; 
To  be    imprisoned    in   the  viewless 

winds. 
And   blown    with    restless    violence 

round  al)out 
The  pendent  world:  or  to  be  worse 

than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain 

thoughts 
Imagine  howling:  'tis  (oo  horrible! 
Tlie    weariest     and     most     loathed 

worldly  life, 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imi)ris 

onment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death! 


[From  The  Tempest.] 
END  OF  ALL  EAIilULY  GLOin. 

Ol'K  revels  now  are  ended:  these  our 

actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits, 

and 
Are  melted  into  air.  into  th::i  air: 
Anil,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this 

vision. 
The  cluud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeouo 

(lalaces, 
Till'  sulruui  temples,  the  great  gloLi. 

itself, 


4'^S 


BHAKF.f^PEAIiE. 


YtM,  all  which  it  iiihorit,  shall  dis- 

solvo: 
And,  lik»'  this  insubstantial  jKigoant 

fa.l.'.l. 
Leave  not  a   rack  behind !     We  are 

such  stutf 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little 

life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


[From  Ci/mbeline.] 
FF.AU  NO  MOIiF. 

Fk  \i:  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  tlie  furious  winter's  ra^'es; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  ilone. 
llonii'    art    t^one,    and    ta'en    thy 
waives : 

(ioMfii  lads  and  u'irls  all  must. 

As  rjiiuiney-sweepers,  eome  to  dust. 

Ft-ar  no  more  thf  frown  o'  the  great. 
Thou  ait  jiast  tlie  tyrant's  stroke; 

(are  no  mon-  to  clothe  ami  eat, 
'I'o  thccthc  reed  is  as  ilic  oak. 

'J'he  sec;iire.  Icarninti.  phytic,  mu.st. 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightniuf^-llasli, 
North'  ;»ll-dreaded  thundei-slone; 

Fear  not  slander,  lensiu^c  rash. 
Thou  hast  llnishcd  joy  and  moan. 

All  lovers  yoiMii;.  all  lovers  luiist. 

Consign  to  thee,  and  <'omc  to  du.st, 


[From  Villus  uinl  .lilonin.] 
THE   HOUSE   OF  ADOS  IS. 

I.ooK,  when  a  painter  woidd  surjiass 
the  lif.-. 

Ill  limiung  out  a  wel|-pro|iorti<ineil 
steed, 

ili^  .irl  with  Natiue's  workmanship 
at  strife, 

As  If  the  dead  the  living  shoulil  ex- 
ceed : 

So  dill  this  horse  exrel  ii  common 
>ne 

III  Hhnjie.  iu  eounige,  color,  pi*ce  and 
bone. 


Hound-hoofed,  short -jointed,  fetloeks 

shag  and  long. 
Broad   breast,   full   eyes,  small  head, 

and  nostrils  wide, 
High  crest,  short  ears,  stniight  legs. 

and  [lassing  strong. 
Thin  uiane.  thick  tail,  broad  buttock 

tender  hide: 
Look,  what  a  horse*  should  have,  he 

did  not  lack. 
Save  a  prouil    rider  on   so   proud  a 

back. 

Sometimes  he  scuds  far  olT,  and  then 
he  stares; 

Anon  he  starts  at  stirring  of  a  feather, 

To  bid  the  w  ind  a  base  he  now  pre- 
pares 

.\nd  whe'r  he  run,  or  tly,  they  know 
not  whether. 

For  through  his  mane  and  tail  the 
high  wind  sings. 

Fanning  the  haii-s,  whi«h  wave  like 
feathered  wings. 


LOVE,    THE  SOLACE   OF   PliESENT 
lALAMlT). 

WiiKN  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and 

men's  eyes, 
1  all  alone  iM'weep  my  outcast  state, 
And  tronbh'  diaf    heaven  with  my 

lioolless  cries,  [fate, 

.\nd  look  \\\>u\\  myself,  and  curse  my 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in 

hoi)e. 
Featured    like    him,    like   him   wiih 

friends  possessed, 
Hesiring    this    man's   art,   and    thai 

ni.in's  scope, 
Willi  what    I   most  enjoy  contenlei 

least ; 
Vet  in  these  thoughls  myself  almost 

despising. 
Haply   I   think  on   tlice,  —  anil  then 

iiiv  slate  |lng 

(Like  to  (lie  lark  at  break  of  day  aris- 
From  Hulbii   earth)   'inu's   hymns  at 

heaven's  gate; 
For  thy   sweet   love   reiiieniliered. 

such  wealth  briiiv"'. 
Thai  then    I    scorn   lo  change  my 

state  with  kings. 


SEAKESPEARE. 


489 


LOl'E,    THE  liETRlEVEIi    OF  PAST 

LOSSES. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 

thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things 

past, 
1   sigh  the  lack  of  many  a   thing  I 

sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear 

time's  waste: 
Then   can  I  drown   an   eye,  unused 

to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  h.'  1  in  death's 

dateless  night, 
And   weep    afresh   love's  long-since 

cancelled  woe. 
And  moan  the  expense   of  many   a 

vanished  sight. 
Then  can  1  grieve  at  grievances  fore- 
gone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er. 
The  sad   account   of  fore-bemoaned 

moan. 
WTiich  1  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  be- 
fore. 
But  if  the  wliile  I  think  on  thee, 

dear  friend. 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows 

end. 


NO    SPRING     WITHOUT    THE    HE- 
LOVED. 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the 

spring. 
When  proud  pied  April,  dressed  in 

all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every 

thing. 
That    heavy    Saturn     laughed     and 

leaped  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the 

sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in   odor  and  in 

line. 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  storv 

tell. 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  th(!m 

where  they  grew. 
Nor  did  1  wonder  at  the  liliee  white, 
Nor  praise  the  ileep  vermilion  in  the 

rose ; 


They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  o\ 

delight, 
Dra^vn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  al 
those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you 

away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these 
did  play. 


LOVE    UNALTERABLE. 

Let  mo  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds     • 
Admit    impediments.      Love   is   not 

love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with   the   remover  to  re- 
move : 
O  no !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark. 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never 

shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although 

his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy 

lips  and  cheeks 
AVithin  his  bending  sickle's  compass 

come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours 

and  weeks 
But  bears  it  out  e'en  to  the  edge  of 

doom. 
If    this   be   error,    and    upon    me 

proved, 
I    never  writ,   nor  no  man    ever 

loved. 


TO  MY  SOUL. 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful 
earth. 

Fooled  by  those  rebel  powers  that 
thee  ai-ray. 

Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suf- 
fer dearth. 

Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly 

gay  ? 

VThy  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a 

lease. 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion 

spend  ? 


490 


8J1KLLEY. 


Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  ex- 
cess, 

K.it  up  thy  (•lull::*-  ?  Is  this  thy 
body's  end  '.' 

Tlifii,  sniil,  live  thou  upon  thy  ser- 
vant's loss, 

And  let  thai  pine  to  aggravate  thy 
store : 


Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of 

tlross; 
Within    be    fed,  without  he  rich   no 

more : 
So  shall   thou  feed  on  tleath.  that 

feeds  on  men, 
■  And,  death  once  dead,  there's  no 

more  ilying  then. 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


OXE    IfOll/i   /S    TOO    (>l'T/:.\  /'/.•'»- 
/■•./.VA/A 

O.NK  word  is  too  often  i)r<)fan(il 

For  mc  to  profane  il, 
(  Mie  feeling  too  falsely  disdaim  <! 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

Foi-  prudence  to  sinolhcr. 
Ami  pily  from  thee  mor«;  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  <all  love, 

Hut  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  ai)ove 

And  till'  heavens  reject  not: 
The  desire  of  (he  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  I  he  ni^ilit  foi-  I  he  morrow. 
Till'  de\oiion  to  somclhin.:;  afar 

From  tile  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


LOVES   rillLOSOPIIY. 

I  III.  fountains  mingle  with  the  river. 

And  till'  rivers  with  the  oi-eaii, 
i  he  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever 

With  a  s.eet  emotion  ; 
Xdiiiin.;  in  the  world  is  single; 

All  lliiiigs  by  a  law  divine 
li  one  another's  being  mingle. — 

Why  not  I  with  thine'/ 

I  <   111.-  mounlains  kiss  high  heaven. 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No    i^iiT  llower  woiil<l  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdaini'd  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  eartli. 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea; 
What  are  all  ibe^e  kis.ings  worth, 

If  thon  kl.ss  not  me  ? 


TO  A   SKYLARK. 

II.MI.  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

I'./nl  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  It, 

I'ouicst  thy  full  heart  (art. 

In  pit)fuse  strains  of  unpremeditated 

Higher  still  ami  higher. 

From  the  <'arth  I  lion  springest 
l.iUe  a  I'loud  of  (ire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
.\nd  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soar- 
ing ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

( )f  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clou. Is  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  tloai  and  run : 
l.iUe  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is 
just  iiegiin. 

Till-  l)ale  purple  even 

.Melts  around  iby  (light ; 
Like  a  star  of  hea\en. 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unsei-n.  but  yei   1  hear  thy 
shrill  deligbi. 

Ki<n  as  are  the  arrows 
( )f  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  th<>  white  dawn  clear, 
I'liiil  we  hardly  sec,  we  feel  that  it  is 
there 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  tbv  voice  is  loud. 
As.  when  nlu'lit  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  eloud 
The  moon   rains  out  her  beams,  and 
heaven  is  overflowed. 


SHE  LIE  y. 


491 


What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  tliee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from,  thy  presence  showers  a  rain 
of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it 
lieeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  iiour 
With  music  sweet    as  love,    which 
overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  tiowers  and  grass,  which 
screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  wann  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with   too   much   sweet 
these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Soimd  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,   and    clear,   and   fresh,   thy 
music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us.  sprite  or  bird, 

AVhat  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  fortli  a  flood  of  rapture 
so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphal  chant. 
Matched  witli  Ihinc  would  be  all 
I'.ut  an  empty  viiuut. — 
A  thiuLT  w  lii'rciii  we  feel  there  is  some 
kiddeu  want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  moun- 
tains ? 
What  shines  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
WTiat  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what 
ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's 
sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  nuist  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
'I'han  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such 
a  crystal  stream  ? 


We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
( )ur  sincerest  laughter 

\Vith  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell 
of  saddest  thought. 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Ilate,  and  prid<'.  and  fear; 
If  we  were  tilings  l)orn 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  liow  thy    joy  we  ever 
should  come  near. 


Better  than  all  m<>asures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner 
of  the  ground ! 


Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

Thai  thy  brain  luu-t  know. 
Such  liarmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  woidd  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am 
listening  now. 


492 


tillELLEY 


MUSIC,  WHES   SOFT   I'OICKS   DIE. 

Mrsic,  wh»'n  soft  voices  dif, 
Vibrates  in  the  nieiuory. — 
Odors,  wlit'U  swtt't  violrls  sickfii. 
Live  witliiii  the  .sciisi'  tlicy  <|ui(ki'ii. 


Rose-h-avcs,  when  tiie  rose  is  dead. 
Are  heaped  for  the  lii-loved's  ix'd: 
And  so  thy  thouj^hts,  when  thou  art 

K'one. 
Love  itsiif  shall  sluniher  on. 


TIME. 


Unfathomaiu.k  Sea!  whose  waves 
are  years, 
Ocean  of  Time,   whose  waters  of 
di'cp  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  liunuin 
tears  I 
Thou  shoreless  Hood,  which  in  thy 
ebb  and  How 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality! 
And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howlini;  on  for 

more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  iMhosjii- 

table  shore: 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terribh;  in 
storm. 
Who  shall  put  fiirlli  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea  ? 


THE    KOI././i'.s    ir  l.\/t/:/tE/lS. 

Tki.i.  me,  thou  star,  whose  wini^s  of 

li«ht 
.speed  thee  in  thy  (iery  lli);hi. 
In  what  cavern  i>f  the  ni^'hl 
Will  thy  pinions  cIom-  now? 

'I'ell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  ^niy 
I'ill^rim  of  heaven's  liomeless  way, 
In  what  de|ith  of  lunhl  or  day 
Seeke.st  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weury  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  ^;uest, 
liiLHi  thou  ><till  some  secret  nust 
Uu  tlio  tree  or  billow  "/ 


DEATH. 

DKArii  is  liere.  and  death  is  thin  . 
Death  is  busy  everywhere. 
All  around,  within,  beneath. 
Above,  is  death, —  antl  we  are  deaiii 

First  our  i)leasure^  die, —  and  then 
Oiu"  liopes,  and  then  our  fears, —  ant! 

when 
These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due, 
Dust  claims  tiust, —  and  w»'  die  too. 

All  ihintjs  tlnit  we  love  and  eherish. 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish; 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot, — 
Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 


77//;    I  LOL'IK 

I  iim.Mj  fresh  showers  for  the  thlret- 
iin;  flowers. 
From  I  lie  seas  and  the  stivams; 
1    bear   liiilii    sha<lcs   for  the   leaves 
when  laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wiuLTs  are  shaken  tin-  «h'W8 
thai   waken 
The  sweet  liuds  t'very  one. 
When   rocked  lo  rest  on  their  moth- 
er's breiisl. 
As  she  ilances  alu)Ut  the  sun. 
I  wielil  the  Hail  of  tin-  lashiui^  hail. 

And  whiten  the  ^jreeu  jilains  tmder. 
And  then  attain  1  diss(dve  it  in  rain, 
.\nd  lan^h  as  I  pass  in  thtmder. 

1  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  be- 
low. 
.\n<l  their  ;;reai  pines  j^roan  aghast ; 
And   all    ilie    niubt   'lis    my   pillow 
while. 
While   I   sle.p   in  the  amis  of  the 
blast. 
Sublime  on  the  lowers  of  my  skyey 
bowers. 
Li^blnini;,  my  jiilot  sit,s, 
In   a   cavern    uiuler,  is   fellered    the 
thunder, 
It  siruuylcs  ami  howls  by  fits; 
Over   earlli    .iml    ocean    with    genl'j« 
motion. 
Thia  pilot  is  guiding  mc, 


SHELLEY. 


493 


Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that 
move 
In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  tlie 
hills, 
Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  imder  mountain 
or  stream, 
The  spirit  he  loves,  remains; 
And  I,  all  the  while,  bask  in  heaven's 
blue  smile, 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  me- 
teor eyes. 
And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  baek  of  my  sailing  rack. 
When     the    morning-star    shines 
dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  moimtain  crag. 
Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and 
swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from 
the  lit  sea  beneath. 
Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pail  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  deptli  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  1  rest,  on  mine 
airy  nest, 
As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orb6d  maiden,  with  white  fire 
laden. 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like 
floor. 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen 
feet. 
Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken   the  woof  of  my 
tent's  thin  roof. 
The   stars   peep    behind    lu-r    and 
peer; 
And   I  laugh  to  see  them  wliirl  and 
flee. 
Like  a  swann  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind- 
l)uilt  tent, 
Till    the    calm    rivers,    lakes,    and 
seas, 


Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through 
me  on  high, 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 
these. 

1  hind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burn- 
ing zone,  I  pearl; 
And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of 
The  volcanoes  are  dim.  and  the  stars 
reel  and  swim. 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner 
unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge- 
like shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  1  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
'i"he  triumphal  arch  through  which  I 
march. 
With  huiricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When   the  powers    of    the    air    are 
chained  to  my  chair. 
Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  spliere-tire  above  its  soft  colors 
wove, 
While  the  moist  earth  was  laugh- 
ing below. 

I  am  the  daiigliter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky: 
I  pass  throuLch  the  pores  of  the  ocean 
and  shores; 
I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never 
a  stain, 
Tlu'  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
Anil  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with 
their  convex  i:leanis. 
Build  u])  tlif  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  ci-notaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  n 
ghost  from  the  tomb. 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


FR OM  "  '/•///•;  s ESS irnr.-p i a s t. •  • 

A  SENSiTiVK-plant  in  a  garden  grew. 

And  the  young  winds  Ted  it  with  sil- 
ver dew. 

And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to 
the  lidit. 

And  dosed  lliem  beneath  the  kisses 
of  uiyht. 


494 


SHELLEY. 


And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden 

fair, 
Anil  the  S])irit  of  Love  fell  every- 

\s  ht'if ; 
And  I'iuh  flow tr and  herb  on  Earth's 

dark  lnvast 
Rose  from  tlie  dn-anis  of  its  wintry 

rest. 


Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting 

air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay 

bare; 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted 

up. 
As  a  .Ma'iiail,  its  moonlight-colored 

cup 


Bui   none  .-ver  tremiiL-d  an.l  paufd    ,,-;„  „,,.  ^;,.^.  ^,.^,.   ^^.,,j^j^  (^  j^^  ^^^ 


with  lili 

In  the  "garden,  the  field,  or  the  wil- 
derness. 

Like  a  <loe  in  the  noontide  with  love's 
swe»-t  want, 

As  the  companionless  sensitive-plant.    , 


(Jazed   throU!,'h  tin-  clear  dew  on  the 
tender  skv: 


The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet. 
Arose   from  the  irround  with  warm 


And   the    jessamine   faint,   and   the 

swfi't  iul)fn>s<'. 
The  swet'ifst  llower  for  scent  that 

lilows; 
And  all   rare   blossoms  from  every 
lime 


And   theirbreath  was  mi.xed   with  |  ^'"'^^ '"  ^''^^e*""*!"' '»  I'^'-^^-^t  l"i"»^'- 

fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the    ^^'"1  "»  ^li*"  stream  whose  mcoustant 


instrinnent. 

'I'lifU  the  ] lied  wind-flowers  and  the 

tidip  tall. 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them 

all. 
Who    ;,'a/.c    on    their    eyes     in     the 

stream's  recess, 


bosom 
Was  jirankt.  under  boughs  of  embow- 

crinu  blossom, 
AVitli  golden  and  green  light,  slanting 

thioiigh 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

IJroail  water-lilies  lay  trenudously. 


'i'ill  they  die  of  their  own  dear  ln\e-    And  slany  river-l.u.js  ;,'iiinmen-d  by, 
jiness.  And  aroinnl  I  hem  the  soft  stream  did 

j  ulide  and  dance 

\nd  tile  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale.        With   a  motion  of  sweet  sound  .and 


Wlium  yiiutb  makes  so  fair  and  pas- 
sion HO  jialc. 

Ihat  the  liu'bt  of  its  tremulous  bells 
is  seen 


radiance 


And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 


Through   their   pavili..ns    of    tender  | 'j-i,,.  dowers,— as  an  infant's  awaken 


green ; 

And  the  livaeintli  purple,  and  while, 
aiid'bliie, 

NN'hieb  llinig  from  its  bells  a  swi'ct 
jM-al  anew 

( »f  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  in- 
tense. 

It  was  fell  like  an  odor  wiiliin  the 
sense; 

And   the   roHc   like  a   nymph   to  the 

bath  addresi, 
Which    un\eiled    I  be    depth     «f     her 

glowing  brea«t. 


I  Ing  eyes 

'  Smile  on   its  mother,  whose  singing 
sweet 
('an  first  hill,  and  at  last  naist  awaken 
it.— 

When  lie.iven's  iilitlie  winds  had  mi- 

folded  them. 

As   mine  l.mips    enkindle    a   hidden 

gem. 
Shone  Muiling  to  heaven,  and  every 

iiiii' 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle 

Sim: 


SHELLEY. 


495 


For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  tlio  Hcht  and  the  odor  its  neigh- 
bor shed, 

Like  youui;  lovers  whom  youth  and 
love  make  dear, 

Wrapped  and  tilled  by  tlieir  mutual 
atmosphere. 

But  tlie  sensitive-plant,  whicli  couKl 
give  small  fruit 

Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the 
leaf  to  the  root. 

Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more 
than  ever, 

Wliere  none  wanted  but  it^  could  be- 
long to  the  giver, — 

For  the  sensitive-plant  has  no  bright 

flower ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower: 
It  loves,  even  like  love,  its  deep  heart 

is  full,  [fiii: 

[t  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beauli- 


FIIOM  "TO  A    LADY    WITH  A 
GUITAIL" 

TiiK  artist  who  this  idol  wrought. 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 
Felli'd  a  tree,  while  on  tin;  steep 
Tlie  woods  were  in  tlieir  winter  sleep, 
Rockeil  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine; 
And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past. 
And  some  of  spring  a[)i)roaching  fast , 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers. 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers. 
And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree. — 
O  that  such  our  death  mav  be!  — 
Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  \m  pain. 
To  live  in  happier  form  again: 
Fromi  which,  beneath  heaven's  fair- 
est star, 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  guitar, 
\nd  taught  it  justly  to  n-ply. 
To  all  wlio  ipiestion  skilfully. 
In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 
Whispering  in  enamored  tone 
Sweet  oraejes  of  Woods  anil  dells. 
A\v\  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 
For  it  hiwl  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies. 
Of  tlie  forests  and  the  mountains. 
And  tlie  niany-voieed  fountains; 


The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
'i'he  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 
And   pattering  rain,  and  breathing 

dew. 
And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  Tiiysterious  sound, 
^Vhicli,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day. 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way, — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
Tlie  spirit  that  inhabits  it; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  tlian  has  been  felt  before, 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 
But,  sweetly  as  its  ansM'ers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill. 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  friend  alone. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

OooD-XTGiiT  ?  ah!  no;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite; 

Let  us  remain  together  still. 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good. 
Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its 
flight '? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  miderstood. 
That  it  will  be  good  night. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other 
move  [light. 

From  evening  close  to  morning 
The  night  is  good ;  because,  my  love, 

They  never  say  good-night. 


MVTAiiiLiry. 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  mid 
night  moon; 
How    restlessly    they    speed,    and 
gleam,  and  (|ui\er. 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly.'  — 
yet  soon 
Night  closes  round,  and  they  ar? 
lost  forever: 


iW 


SHEKSTOXE. 


Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whoso  dlsso-    We  feel,  conoeivo  or  reason,  laugh  01 
nant  strintr?  weep; 

Give  various  resj)onse  to  each  vary-       Einlnarc    fond    woe,   or    east   our 
ing  blast,  cares  away. 

To  whose  fr.iil  frame  no  secoml  mo- 
tion lirings'  It    is   the  samel  —  For.  l>e  it   joy  or 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  sorrow, 

last.  The  path  of   its  departure   still   is 

free: 
We  rest  —  a  dream  has  power  to  ihm-    Man's  ycstenlay  may    ne'er  be   like 
son  sleep:  hisniorrt>w: 

We  rise  —  one  wandering  thought  1      Naught     may     endure    but    muta- 
poUutes  the  day;  '  bilily. 


William  Shenstone. 


sTASZAs  rno.u  -'THi-:  sciiooi^    | 
.»/y.s  rnKss." 

ix  every   village  marked  with  little 

spire, 
Eniliowered    in    trees,    ami    hanlly 

kncinii  to  fame. 
There  dwells,  in   lowly  shed,  and 

me;in  at'iri", 
A    matron   old,   whom   we   school- 
mistress nam<-: 
Who  boasts  luiruly  bmtswith  birch 

to  tame; 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  <hir- 

an«'e  i)ent. 
jVwed  by  ihepdWel-   of   tlli^    releMl- 

less  dame; 
And    oft-times,    on    vagaries    idly 

Ix-nt. 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  nneuinied, 

;ire  sorely  shent. 

.\nd  all  in  sight  doth   rise  a  bireln n 

tree. 
Whicli     learning    near    her    little 

dome  did  .stow; 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  In 

see. 
Though   now    so  wide    its   wavim,' 

bninelie"  llow,  I  woe; 

And  work  tin-  simple  vassnls  ndckle 
For   not  11   wind    might   curl   the 

li'.ivcs  lliat  blew, 
Btit    their   limbs    shuddered,     tnd 

their  pulie  \h'hI  low; 


And    as    they    looked    tliey    found 
tiieir  liorror  ;,'row, 
.Vnd  sliaped  it   into  rods,  aiul  linirled 
at  the  view. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch 

so  green. 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols 

do  disphiy ; 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board 

is  seen. 
Lest    weakly    wight,s     of    smaller 

size  should  stray; 
Eager,  i)erdie.  to  bask  in  sunny  day  I 
The     noi>es      intermixeil,     which 

llience  n-sound,  |ir:iy.' 

Po   learidng's    little    leiiemenl    be- 
Where  sits  the  ilame,  disguised  in 

look  profound 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns 

her  wheel  around. 

Her  caj),  far  whiter  than  tin- driven 

snow, 
I'niblem    rigid     meet     (tf    decency 

does  yicbl: 
ijer  apron  dved  In  grain,  as  blue,  I 

trow.  I  held: 

As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  th<! 
Anil   in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she 

does  wield 
Twa\  liircbcn  sprays;  with  anxious 

fear  entwined. 
With    dark    ilislru-t.    and    sad    ny 

pentance  tilled; 


SEEN  STONE. 


497 


And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  af- 
fliction joined, 
And  fuiy  uncontroiied,  and  chastise- 
ment unkind. 


A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders 

thrown; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  tlie  nipping 

air; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her 

own ; 
'Twas  her  own  coimtry  bred  the 

flock  so  fair, 
'Twas  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece 

prepare : 
And,    sooth    to    say,   her    pupils, 

ranged  around. 
Through   pious  awe,   did   term  it 

passing  rare ; 
For  tliey   in   gaping  wonderment 

abound, 
A.nd  think  no  doubt,  she  been  the 

greatest  wight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne   flattery   did   corrupt    her 

truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her 

ear; 
Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n'  atmt, 

foisooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did 

hear; 
Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she 

held  right  dear: 
Nor    would    esteem     him    act    as 

mought  beliove. 
Who  should  not  honored  eld  with 

these  revere: 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could 

prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did 

that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to 
feed : 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy 
dame: 

Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by 
need. 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chick- 
ens, came; 

Such  favor  did  her  past  deport- 
ment claim ; 


And,  if  neglect  had  lavished  on  the 
ground 

Fragments    of    bread,   she    would 
collect  the  same. 

For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly 
could  expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  small- 
est crumb  she  foimd. 


Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  ile- 

cent  eve, 
Hynmed  such  psalms  as  Sternhold 

forth  did  mete; 
If  winter  'twere,  she  to  her  hearth 

did  cleave. 
But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer 

seat ; 
Sweet   melody  to  hear    her  then 

repeat 
How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  for- 
eign king. 
While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song 

entreat, 
All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every 

string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres  —  small 

heart  had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  vir- 
tuous lore. 

And  passed  nmch  time  in  truly  vir- 
tuous deed ; 

And,,  in  those   elfins'  ears,  would 
oft  deplore 

The  times,  when  truth  by  popish 
rage  did  l)leed; 

And  tortuous  death  was  true  devo- 
tion's meed; 

And  simple  P'aith  in  iron  chains  did 
mourn. 

That     nould     on    wooden     image 
place  her  creed ; 

And  lawnly  saints  in  smouldering 
flames  did  bm-n: 
Ah!    dearest    J^ord,    forefend    tiiilk 
days  should  ere  return. 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish 

stem. 
By  the  shari>   tooth  of  cankering 

eld  defaced. 
In  wliicli.  when  he  receives  his  di 

adcm, 


498 


SniliLEY. 


Our  sovereign  prince    and  liefest 

lifge  is  placed. 
The  malrun  hale;  and  suuie  with 

rank  .she  yraoL-d. 
(Tlie  soiure  of  children" s  and  of 

courtiers'  i)ride!) 
Kedressed  affronts,  for  vile  affronts 

tliere  passed; 
And  warned  them  not  the  fretful 

to  deride, 
lint  love  each  other  dear,  whatever 

them  hetide. 

Kipht  well  she  knew  each  temper  to 

descry; 
To  thwart  tlie  proud  and  the  suh- 

niiss  to  raise; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt 

oa  hi<j;h, 
And    some    entice    with    pittance 

small  of  praise; 
And  other  some  wltli  haleful  sprig 

she  frays  ; 
E'en  ahseiit,  slie  thereinsof  power 

doth  hold. 
While  with  quaint  arts,  the  giddy 

crowd  she  sways. 
Forewarned,    if    little    hird    their 

pranks  behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  iier  ear,  and  ail  the 

scene  unfold. 


WItlTTES  AT  Alf  ISN  AT  HESLEY 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire 

From  flattery,  cards,  ami  dice,  and 
din; 
Xor    art    thou    found    in    mansions 
higher 
Than  tlu'  low  cot  or  humble  inn. 

'Tis   here   with    lioundless    power    I 
reign, 
And  every  health  which  I  begin 
Converts  dull  port  to   bright    iham- 
l)agne ! 
.Such  frei'dom  crowns  it  at  an  inn, 

1  lly  from  pomp,  1  lly  from  plate, 

I  tly  from  Falseliooil's specious  grin; 
Freedom  1  love,  and  form  1  hate, 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

Here,  waiter!  take  my  sordid  ore. 
Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to 
win; 

It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store. 
It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

^^^^oe'er     has     travelled     life's    dull 
round, 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been. 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 

I I  is  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 


James  Shirley. 


{From  Thf  < 'un/'iition  of  AjnT uml  Cli/nm ,<.  ] 
n  K  A  Til   THE  I.  E ;  'E 1.  L  K  R. 

TiiK  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 
Ares|iadows,not  suliNtantial  thinus: 

There  is  no  armor  ayaiust  Fate  — 
Death  lays  his  icy  band  on  kini,'s. 
Sceptre  ;iiid  crow  II 

.Must  tinnbje  down, 
.\n  i  iti  the  diisl  ite  eciiial  maile 
\Vith    the   jioor   orookefl  scythe  and 
spade. 

Some  men  wifli  swords  may  reaji  the 

tleld.  (kill: 

And  |il;iiii  fresh  laurels  where  ihev 

But  their  si rori'^'  ni-rveM  at   last    must 

Viehl  — 


i'bey  tame  but  one  another  still; 
Karly  or  late 
'i'bey  stoop  to  Fate. 
.\\u\  must  give  up  their  nun  inuring 

breatli. 
When  they,   i)ale  captives,  creep  to 
death. 

The  garlands  w  ither  on  ynnr  brow  — 
riieii  boast   no  more  yoin°  mighty 

deeds; 
ri)oii  Death's  purjile  altar,  now. 
See  where  the  victor-viclim  bleeds. 
All  beads  iMUsI  roiiu- 
To  the  cold  tomb  — 
(  >lllv  the  ;icllons  of  the   just 
Smell    swi-ei.    and    blossoHi     in    the 
dust. 


SIDNEY—  SIOOURNET. 


49i) 


Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

SONNET  TO  SLEEP. 


Come,  sleep,  O  sleep,  the  certain  knot 

of  peace, 
The  bailing- place  of  wit,  the  balm  of 

woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's 

release, 
The   iniiitferent  judge    between  the 

high  and  low ! 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from 

out  the  prease 
Of  those  tierce  darts.  Despair  at  me 

doth  throw : 


0  make  me  in  those  civil  wars  tc 

cease ! 

1  M'ill  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 
Take   thou    of  nio   smooth   pilkn\s, 

sweetest  bed; 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind 
to  light; 

A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head; 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine 
by  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt 
in  me. 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  im- 
age see. 


Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 


FA  HE  WELL  OF  TJIE  SOUL  TO  THE 
UOI)  Y. 

CoMPANiox  dear!  the  hour  draws 
nigh; 

The  sentence  s  peeds  —  to  die,  to  die. 

So  long  in  mystic  union  held. 

So  close  with  strong  embrace  com- 
pelled. 

How  canst  thou  bear  the  dread  de- 
cree, 

Thai  strikes  thy  clasping  nen'es  from 
me  ? 

To  Him  who  on  this  mortal  shore. 

The  same  encircling  vestment  wore. 

To  Iliin  I  look,  to  Uim  I  bend, 

To  Him  thy  shuddering  frame  com- 
mend, 

If  I  have  ever  caused  thee  pain, 

TIk'  throbbiiig  breast,  the  burning 
brain, 

With  cares  and  vigils  turned  thee 
pale. 

And  scorned  thee  when  thy  strength 
did  fail  — 

Forgive!  — Forgive! —  thy  task  doth 
cease, 

Frienil !  Lover !  —  let  us  part  in  peaie. 

If  thou  didst  sometimes  check  my 
force. 

Or,  trilling,  slay  mine  upward  course. 


Or  lure  from  Heaven  my  wavering 

tnist, 
Or  bow  my  drooping  Aving  to  dust  — 
I  blame  thee  not,  the  strife  is  done, 
I  knew  thou  wert  the  weaker  one. 
The  vase  of  earth,  the  trembling  clod. 
Constrained   to   hold  the    breath   of 

God. 
—  Well    hast    thou    in    my    service 

wrought ; 
Thy  brow  hath  mirrored    forth  my 

thought, 
To  wear  my  smile  thy  lip  hath  glowed, 
Thy  tear,  to  speak  my  sorrows,  flowed : 
Thine  ear  haili  borne  me  rich  sup- 
plies 
Of  sweetly  varied  melodies; 
Thy  hands  my  prompted  deeds  have 

(lone. 
Thy  feet  upon  mine  eirands  run ; 
Yes,  thou  hast  marked  my  ))iddini; 

well, 
Faithful  and  true!  farewell,  farewell' 

Co  to  thy  rest.     A  quiet  bed 

Meek    motlier     Earth    with    flowers 

shall  si)read. 
Where  I  no  more  thy  sleep  may  liri'ak 
With  fevered  dream,  nor  rudely  waktf 
Thy  wearied  eye. 


500 


SIQOURNET. 


Oh,  (luit  thy  hoM, 
For  thou  art  faint,  and  chill,  and  cold, 
And  lonu  thy  gasj)  and  liioaii  of  jiain 
Have  hoinid  iiic  pityiui;  in  thy  chain. 
'I'hoiigh  angels  urge  nic  hence  to  soar, 
AVhciv  1  shall  share  thine  ills  no  more. 
Yet  we   shall  meet.     To   soothe  thy 

]>aiu 
ItejuemlK'r  —  we  shall  meet  again. 
Quell    with    this    hope    the   victor's 

sting, 
And  keep  it  as  a  signet-ring, 
When  the  dire  worm  shall  pierce  thy 

hreast. 
And  nought  hut  ashes  mark  thy  rest, 
When  stars  shall  fall,  and  skies  grow 

dark, 
And  i)roud  sinis  i|Ueneh  their  glow- 
worm spark. 
Keep  thou    that    hope,  to   light   thy 

gloom. 
Till  the  last  trumpet  rends  the  tomb. 
—  Then   shalt  thou  glorious  rise,  and 

lair. 
Nor  six)t,  nor  stain,  nor  wrinkle  bear. 
And  1,  with  hovering  wing  elate, 
'I'he  bursting  of  thy  homls  shall  wail. 
And  bleathe  the  welcouu'  i>f  llie  sky — 
'•  No  more  to  jtart,  no  Uiore  to  die, 
Co-heir  of  Immortality.'" 


iih:.\i:y(ti.t:.\cF. 

WiinsK  is  the  gold  that  glitters  in  the 

min(!  ? 
And  whose  the  silver?    Are  they  not 

the  Lord's? 
And  lo!  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hilN, 
And    the    liroail    earth    with  all    her 

gushing  si>ringH 
Are  tlu-y  not  Ills  who  made  Iheni  ? 

\\'  who  hold 

Sliv'ht  tenantry  therein,  ami  call  your 
lands 

r.v  your  own  names,  and  lock  vour 
gathered  unld 

From  liim  who  in  his  hi ling  .Sa- 
viour's name 

l)olh  ask  a  part,  whose  shall  those 
riehis  be 

When,  like  tlie  gniHv-l.li.l..  ft,, III  the 
aututim  fmst. 

Ye  ftill  away  ? 


Point  out  to  me  the  forms 
That  in  your  treasure-chambers  shah 

enact 
(Jlad   mastership,   and    revel    wlu-re 

you  toiled 
Sleepless   and    stern.     Strange   faces 

are  they  all. 
O   maul    whttse   wrinkling    labor   is 

for  heirs 
Thou  kiu)west  not  who,  thou  in  thy 

mouldering  bed. 
I'nkenned.    uiu-hronii  led    of    'hem, 

shall  slei'p; 
Nor  will  they  thank  thee,  that   thou 

didst  bereave 
Thy  soul  of  good  for  them. 

Now,  thou  n.ayest  give 
The    famished     food,    the    prisoner 

liberty. 
Light  lo  tlu'  darkened  mind,  to  the 

lost  soul 
A  pla<e  in  heaven.     Take  thou  the 

privilege 
With   soleiiui    gratitude.      Speck   as 

thou  art 
Upon  earth's  surface,  gloriously  exult 
To    l)e    co-worker   with   the  King  of 

kings. 


THE    lOll.lL    /.V.SAC7'. 

Toll,  on!  toil  on  I  ye  eiihemenil  train, 

Who  build  on  the  tossing  and  treach- 
erous main ; 

Toil  on  I  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye 
mock. 

With  your  sand-based  siruetun's,  ami 
domes  of  ro<'k; 

Vour  columns  the  fathomless  foiin- 
laius  lave, 

\nd  your  arches  sjiriug  up  Ihrongh 
"the  crested  wave: 

Ve're  a  puny  rac-c.  thus  boldly  to  rear 

A  falirie  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  tlrMir. 

Ve    bind    the   deep   with  your  se.-ret 

zone. 
The  ocean  Is  seate<l.  and  the  surge  a 

stone: 
Fresh   urealb-^  from    the  coral  pave- 

uieul  spriri'.;. 
I.iki'  the  terraced  pride  of   Assyria's 

king: 


SIMMS. 


501 


The  turf  looks  greon  where  the  break- 
ers rolled, 

O'er  the  wlihlpool  ripens  the  rind  of 
gold,  [men, 

The  sea-snatehed  isle  is  the  home  of 

And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave 
hath  been. 

j3ut  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  bil- 
lows dark 

The  wri'i^king  reef  for  the  gallant  bark? 

There  are  snares  enough  on  the 
tented  field ; 

'Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the 
valleys  yield ; 

There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the 
flowers  are  up: 

There's  a  poison  drop  in  man's  purest 
eup ; 

There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cra- 
dle breath. 

And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with 
death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are 

white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics 

bright; 


The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers 

cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls 

of  gold ; 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned 

to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  'mid  their  halls  of 

glee: 
Hath  earth  no  grapes?  that  ye  thus 

must  spread 
The   boui.dless   sea  with  the  throng 

ing  dead  ? 

Ye  build !  ye  build !  but  ye  enter  not 
in; 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  de- 
voured in  their  sin; 

From  the  land  of  promise,  ye  fade 
and  die. 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  yoiu- 
wearied  eye. 

As  the  cloud-crowned  pyramids' 
founders  sleep 

Noteless  and  lost  in  oblivion  deep, 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  deso- 
late main. 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your 
works  remain. 


William  Gilmore  Simms. 


PROGRESS   IN  DENIAL. 

"Yet,  onward  still!"  the  spirit  cries 
within, 
'Tis  I  that  must  repay  thee.     Mor- 
tal fame. 
If  won,  is  but  at  best  the  hollow  din, 
Tiie  vulgar  freedom  with  a  mighty 

name; 
Seek  not  this  nuisic, —  ask  not  this 
acclaini. 
But  in   the  strife   fintl  succor;  —  for 
the  toil 
Pursued  for  such  false  barter  ends 
in  shame. 
As  ccrlaHily  as  that  which  seeks  Init 

spoil! 
Best    recompense   he  finds,   who.   to 
his  task 
Brings  a  proud,  patient  spirit  that 
will  wait, 


Nor  for  the  guerdon  stoop,  noi- vainly 

ask 
Of  fate  or  fortune, —  but  with  right 

good-will,  [still. 

Go,  working  on.  and  imcomplainin.L' 

Assureil  of  (it   reward,  or  soon  or 

late! 


SOLACE  or  THE  irooDs. 

Woods,    waters,    have   a   charn    b» 

sootlx'  llir-  ear. 
When  conunon  .rounds  have  vexed 

it.     When  tlie  day 
(Ji'ows  sultry,  and   tin-  crowd   is  in 

thy  way. 
And  workiiiu:   in   thy  sold  much  coil 

and  care. — 
Betake  thee  In  the  forests.     In  thd 

shade 


502 


SLMMS. 


Of  piiu'S,  ami  by  tin-  sidi'  of  purl- 

iii;j;  stn-anis 
Thai  imilllc   all    their    si-crots   in 
tlu'ir  (Ik  ain-i. 
Unconscious  df  a  li>i('n('r. — unafraid; 
Thy  soul  shall  fi-i-l  I lu'ir  freshening, 
and  thf  truth 
Of    nature   then,   reviving   in   thy 
heart. 
Shall   hring  thee  the  best  feelings  of 
thy  youth, 
Wlien  in  all   natural  joys  thy  joy 
iiad  part. 
Ere  iuere  and  the  narrowing  toils  of 

trade 
Had   turned   thee  to  the  tiling  thou 
wast  not  made. 


Itl'joMI'KSSK. 

Not  profitless  the  game,  even  when 
we  lose, 
Xor  wanting  in  reward  the  thank- 
less toil; 
The   wild   adventure   that   the   man 
liursues, 
Ke(iuites  him,  though  he  gather  not 
the  spoil : 
Strength  follows  labor,  and   its  exer- 
eist! 
Hrings   indei)endenee.   fearlesauess 
of  ill.— 
Courage  and  priile, — all  attributes  we 
prize;  — 
Though    their   fruits  fail,    not    tin' 
less  Jirerittus  still. 
Though  fame  withholds  the  trophy  of 
desire. 
And  men  deny,  and  the  impatient 
throng 
irow  lieedless,  and  i\w  stniins  pro- 
traded,  tin-;  — 
Not   wholly  vain  the  minstn!  and 
I  lie  s«)ng. 
If,  striving  to  arousr  one  heavenly 

tone 
'n   oibers'  hearts,   it   wakens  up  his 
own. 

Intl  IIiIh,  metliiiiks,  were  no  imseem- 
ly  boiisl. 

In  him  who  ilnis  ncords  the  expe- 
rience 


Of  one,  the  humblest  of  that  erring 
host. 
Whose  labors  have  been  thought  t6 
neeil  deffuee. 
What   thougii   he   reap  no  honors, — 

what  though  death 
Rise   terrii)le   between  him  and    the 

wreath. 
That  had  been  iiis  rewanl,  ere,  in  the 
dnsi. 
He  too  is  dust;  yet  hath  he  in  his 
heart, 
The  ha]>piest  consciousness  of  what 
is   just. 
Sweet,  true,  and  beautiful, — which 
will  not  j)art  [faith. 

From  his  possession.     In  this  liappy 
He  knows  that  life  is  lovely, —  that 

all  things 
Are  sacred; — that  the  air  is  full  of 
wings 
Bent  heavenward, —  and  that  bliss  is 
born  of  scath ! 


iiEAirr  i:ssi:m'ial  m  ahy/is. 

Wk  are  not  always  eipial  to  our  fate, 
\or  true  to  our  conditions.     Doubt 

and  fear 
Beset    the    l»ravest    in    their    liigb 
car«'er, 
-Vt  moments  when  the  soul,  no  more 
elate 
With    expectation,    sinks    beneath 

the  time. 
The  masters  have  their  weakness. 

'■  I  would  clindi," 
Said    K.dri'^b.  ga/.ing  on    iIh- high- 
est hill.— 
"But  that  I  iivmlili-  w  lib  ib<- fear  to 
fall!-- 
Ajtl   Wius  the  answer  of   liie  high- 
souled  l^ue.ii. — 
"Iftbvbearl   fail   lliei>,  never  climb 

at  all!' 
The  heart !  if  that  be  sound   conlirms 
the  r.si. 
Crowns   ijeidus  with  bis  Ijou  wil[ 
and  mien. 
.\ ml,  from  the  conscious  vi it iie  in  lb« 

bleiisl. 

To  trembliin:    nature  gives    lK)lh 
strengtli  and  will! 


SIMMS. 


503 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Though  wronged,  not  harsh  my  an- 
swer!   Love  is  fond, 
Even  pained, —  and  rather  to   his 

injury  bends, 
Than  chooses  to  make  shipwreck 
of  his  friends 
By    stormy     summons.       He     hath 
naught  beyond 
For  consolation,  if  that  these  be 

lost; 
And  rather  will  he  hear  of  fortune 
crossed, 
Plans  baffled,    hopes  denied, —  than 
take  a  tone 
Resentful, —  with  a  quick  and  keen 

reply 
To   hasty   passion   and    impatient 
eye. 
Such  as  by  noblest  natures  may  be 
shown. 
When  the  mood  vexes!   Friendship 

is  a  seed 
Needs  tendance.   You  must  keep  it 
free  from  weed. 
Nor,  if  the  tree  has  sometimes  bitter 

fruit. 
Must  you  for  this  lay  axe  unto  the 
root. 


UNHAPPY  CHILDHOOD. 

That  season  which  all  other  men  re- 
gret, 
And  strive,  with  boyish  longing,  to 
recall, 

"Which  love  pennits  not  memory  to 
forget, 
And  fancy  still  restores  in  dreams 
of  all 

That    boyhood    worshipped,   or    be- 
lieved, or  knew. — 

lirings  no  sweet  images  to  me, —  was 
true. 

Only   in   cold   and   cloud,   in   lonely 
days 
And  gloomy  fancies, — in  defrauded 

claims. 
Defeated   hopes,   denied,   denying 
aims;  — 

Cbeereil  by  no  promise, —  lighted  by 
no  rays, 


Warmed  by  no  smile, —  no  mother's 
smile, —  that  smile. 

Of  all,  best  suited  sorrow  to  beguile, 

And  strengthen  hope,  and,  by  un- 
marked degrees. 

Encourage  to  their  birth  high  pur 
poses. 


MANHOOD. 

Manhooo  at  last! — and,   with    its 
con.sciousness. 
Are  strength  and  freedom ;  freedom 
to  pursue 
The  purposes  of  hoiie, —  the  godlike 
bliss, 
Born  in  the  struggle  for  the  great 
and  true! 
And  every  energj'that  should  be  mine, 
This  day,  I  dedicate  to  its  object, — 
Life! 
So  help  me.  Heaven,  that  never  I  re- 
sign 
The  duty  which  devotes  me  to  the 
strife ; 
The  enduring  conflict  which  demands 
my  strength, 
Whether  of   soul  or  body,  lo  the 
last; 
The  tribute  of  my  years,  through  all 
their  length; 
The  future's  compensation  to  the 
past! 
Boys'  pleasiues  are  for  boyhood, — its 

best  cares 
Befit  us  not  in  our  performing  years. 


NIGHT- STOnM. 

Tins  tempest  sweeps  the  Atlantic!  — 
Nevasink 
Is  howling  to  the  capes!  Grim  Hat- 
teras  cries 
Like  thousand  damned  ghosts,  that 
on  the  brink 
Lift  tlieir  dark  hands  and  threat 
tlic  threatening  skies; 
Surging  through  foam  and  tempest, 
old  Komiin 
Hangs  o'er  tbe  gulf,  and,  with  his 

cavernous  throat. 
Pours  out  the  torrent  of  his  wolfish 
note, 


604 


SMITH. 


And  bids  the  billows  bear  It  where 

tliey  can ! 
Deep  calletli    unto  deep,  and,  from 

the  floud. 
Launches  tlie  bolt,  that,  bursting 

o'er  the  sea. 
Rends  for  a  moment  the  thick  pitchy 

sliroud, 
Anil  shows  the  ship  the  shore  be- 

neatli  her  lee : 
Start  not,  dear  wife,  no  dangers  here 

betide, — 
And  see,   the  boy  still   sleeping  at 

your  side! 


TiarsrPH. 

TnK  grave   but   ends  the    struggle! 
Follows  then 
The  iriumpli,    which,  superior  to 
the  doom, 


Grows  loveliest,  and   looks  best,  to 
mortal  men. 
Purple  in  beauty,  towering  o'er  the 
tomb! 
Oh!  with  the  stoppage  of  the  imind 
sive  tide 
That    vexed   the   impatient    heart 

with  needful  strife. 
The   soul    that    is    hope's    livinij;. 
leaps  to  life. 
And  shakes  her  fragrant  phun:ige  far 

and  wide! 
Eyes  follow  then  in  worship  which 
but  late 
Frowned    in    defiance,  —  and    the 
timorous  herd,  [wonl. 

That  sleekly  waited  for  ajinther'f- 
Grow  bold,  at  last,  to  bring,—  i>bey- 
ing  fate, —   • 
The  tribute  of  their  praise,  but  lalo 
denied, — 

Tribute   of  homage  which  is  some- 
times,—  hatel 


Alexander  Smith. 

[/•VoHi  J  for  ton.] 
IiAl;li.UiA. 

Ox  the  Sabbatlwlay, 

Tliroiiuii  the  rliunh-yaril  old  and  gray, 
Over  the  orisp  and  yellow  li-aves  I  held  my  rustlin;,'  way; 
Ami  aiiiic!  Ilir  words  of  nien-v.  falling  on  my  soul  like  balms, 
'Mill  the  ;,'ort,'rou.s  .slurm.>  of  musii —  in  (lie  niellnw  nrgan-ealms, 
'Mid  the  ui»ward-sireamiiii,'  prayers,  and  the  rich  and  solenm  psalma, 

I  stood  eareliHs,  liarbara. 

My  heart  was  otherwhere 

Widle  the  organ  shook  the  air. 
And  tlie])riest.  witli  outsj.nad  liand^.  hlessi-d  the  jieople  with  a  prayer 
Hut.  when  risini;  to  ;{o  lioin<  wanl.  with  a  mild  and  saint-like  shine 
<Jlean)eil  a  faii-  of  airy  lie.iiiLy  wilii  itsheavi'idy  eyes  on  mine  — 
(rieamed  and  vatdshfd  in  a  moment  —  Uh,  that  face  was  surely  thine 

Out  of  heaven,  iSarbara! 


f)  iiallil.  pallid  face! 

()  earniMi  eyes  of  grace! 
When  last  I  saw  thee,  dcan-Hl,  it  was  in  another  place. 
You  ejinx'  nmidni;  forth  to  meet  me  with  my  love-j;ift  on  your  wrist; 
The  flutter  of  a  long  while  dress,  then  all  was  lost  in  ndst  — 
A  pnrjile  stain  oi  agony  was  on  I  In-  mouth  1  kis«e<l, 

That  wild  morning,  Harli;iral 


SMITH. 


b{)h 


I  searched,  in  my  despair, 

Sunny  noon  and  midnight  air; 
I  could  not  drivt'  away  l\\o.  tliought  that  you  were  lingering  there. 
Oh,  many  and  many  a  winter  night  1  sat  wlien  you  were  gone, 
My  worn  face  buried  in  my  liauds,  beside  the  fire  alone, 
Within  the  dripping  cluntli-yard,  the  rain  plashing  on  your  stone, 

You  were  sleeping,  Barbara ! 

'Mong  angels,  do  you  think 

Of  the  precious  golden  link 
I  clasped  around  your  bai)py  arm  while  sitting  by  yon  brink? 
Or  when  that  niglit  of  gliding  dance,  of  laughter  and  guitars, 
Was  emptied  of  its  music,  and  we  watched,  through  latticed  bars, 
The  silent  midnight  heaven  creeping  o'er  us  with  its  stars, 

Till  the  day  broke,  I3arbara  ? 

In  the  year?  I've  changed; 

Wild  and  far  my  heart  hath  ranged, 
And  many  sins  and  errors  now  have  been  on  me  avenged; 
But  to  you  I  have  been  faithful,  whatsoever  good  I  lacked: 
I  loved  you,  and  above  my  life  i<till  hangs  that  love  intact  — 
Your  love  the  trembling  rainbow,  1  the  reckless  cataract  — 

Still  I  love  you,  Barbara! 

Yet,  love,  I  am  unblest; 

With  many  doubts  opprest, 
I  wander  like  a  desert  wind,  without  a  place  of  rest. 
Could  I  but  win  you  for  an  hour  from  off  that  starry  shore, 
The  hmiger  of  my  soul  were  stilled,  for  Death  hath  told  you  more 
Than  the  melancholy  world  dotli  know;  things  deeper  than  all  lore. 

You  could  teach  me,  Barbara! 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain! 

You  will  never  come  again ! 
There  droops  upon  the  dreary  hills  a  mournful  fringe  of  rain; 
The  gloaming  closes  slowly  roimd,  loud  winds  are  in  the  tree, 
Bound  seltish  shores  forever  moans  the  hurt  and  womided  sea, 
There  is  no  rest  upon  tlie  earth,  peace  is  with  Death  and  thee, 

Barbara ! 


GLASGOW. 


Sing,  poet,  'tis  a  merry  world ; 
That    cottage    smoke   is  rolled   and 
curled 

la  sport,  that  every  moss 
I?>  bappy,  every  inch  of  soil ;  — 
Before  me  runs  a  road  of  toil 

With  my  grave  cut  across. 
Sing,   trailing    showers    and    breezy 

ilowns  — 
I  know  the  tragic  hearts  of  towns. 


City!  I  am  true  son  of  thine; 
Ne'er  dwelt  I  where  great  mornings 
shine 

Around  the  bleating  pens; 
Ne'er  by  the  rivulets  I  strayed. 
And  ne'er  upon  my  ehiliihood  weigh<^l 

The  silence  of  tbe  glens. 
Instead     of     shores     where     ooean 

beats 
I  hear  the  ebb  and  flow  of  streets. 


506 


SMITH. 


Black  Labor  draws  his  weary  waves 
Into  tlifir  socH't  nioaiiing  caves; 

Uul.  with  the  inurning  light, 
That  sea  again  will  over!low 
With  a  long,  weary  souml  of  woe, 

Again  to  faint  in  night. 
Wave  am  I  in  that  sea  of  woes. 
Which,  night  ami  morning,  ebbs  and 
flows. 

I  dwelt  within  a  gloomy  court, 
Whcnin  (lid  never  sunlii'am  sjiort: 

Vet  there  my  heart  was  stirred  — 
My  very  blood  did  dance  and  tlirill. 
When  on  my  narrow  window-sill 

Spring  lighted  like  a  binl. 
I'oor  flowers!  I    watched   them  pine 

for  weeks. 
With  leaves  as  pale  as  hinnan  cheeks. 

Afar,  one  siunmer,  I  was  borne; 
Ihrongii  golden  vajMirs  of  the  in(»rn 

1  heard  the  hills  of  sheep: 
1  trod  with  a  wild  ecstasy 
'I  lie  bright  fringe  of  the  living  sea: 

And  on  a  mined  keep 
I  sal,  and  watched  an  endless  plain 
HIacken  beneath  the  gloom  of  rain. 

Oh.  fair  the  liglilly-sprinkled  waste. 
O'er    which    a  langhing   shower  has 
raced  I 

Oh.  fair  the  April  shootsi 
Ob.  fair  I  he  wooils  on  snmmiT  days, 
While  a  blue  hyaciniliine  haze 

Is  dreaming  round  the  roots! 
In  thee,  (J  city!  I  discern 
Another  iM-auty,  sail  and  stem, 

r)rawthy  Herrestreamsof  blindingore, 
Sndte  on  a  thousand  anvils,  roar 

Down  to  the  harbor-bars; 
Smoidder  in  smoky  '<unsets.  flare 
Oil    rainy   nights;    with   street    and 
sipiare 

I,ie  empty  to  the  sL-irs. 
ln>m  terrace  proud  tr)  alley  base 
I  know  thee  as  my  niotiier's  fa<'e. 

When  sunset  bathes  tliee  In  his  gold, 
In    wreaths  of   bronze   thy  sides  are 

rolled. 
Thy  smoke  is  dusky  fire; 
And,    frrtm    ilie    glory    routwl    thee 

p<jured, 


A  sunbeam  like  an  angel's  sword 

.Shivers  upon  a  spire. 
Thus  have  I  watched  thee,  Terror; 

Dream! 
While  the  blue  night  crept  up  the 

stream. 

The  wild  train  plunges  in  the  hills, 
He  shrieks  across  the  midnight  rills; 

Streams  through  the  shifting  glare, 
The  roar  and  flap  of  foinidry  lires. 
That   shake   with   light  the  sleeping 
shires; 

And  on  the  moorlands  bare 
He  .sees  afar  a  crown  of  light 
Hang  o'er  thee  in  the  hollow  night. 

At  midnight,  when  thy  suburbs  lie 
As  silent  as  a  nooiwlay  sky 

When  larks  with  heat  are  mute, 
I  love  to  linger  on  thy  britlge. 
All  lonely  as  a  mouniain  ritlge, 

Disturbed  but  by  my  foot; 
While  the  black  lazy  stream  beneath 
Steals  from  its  far-olT  wilds  of  heath. 

And  through  thy  heart  as  through  a 

dream. 
Flows     on     that     black     disdainful 
stream: 
All  .scornfully  it  flows, 
lletween  the  huddled  gloom  of  mast,s. 
Silent  as  jiines  unvcxcd  by  blasts  — 
'Tweeii  lamjis  in  streaming  lows, 

0  wondrous    sight!      ()    stream    of 

<lread! 
<)  long,  dark  river  of  the  dead! 

Afar,  the  banner  of  the  year 
Unfurls:  biu  din.ly  jirisone*!  here, 

"lis  only  when  I  greet 
A  drojii  ro>e  lying  in  my  way, 
A  butterlly  that  llulters  gay 

Athwart  the  noi.s\  street. 

1  know  the  hapiiy  Summer  snules 
Around  thy  suburbs,  miles  on  miles. 

'Twere  neither  piean  now.  nor  dirge, 
The  Hash  an<l  thunder  of  the  surge 

On  Ilat  s.unls  wide  and  liare; 
No  haunting  joy  or  anuuish  dwells 
In  the  green  light  of  siuiny  dells, 

<  )r  in  the  ^larry  air. 
Alike  to  me  the  desert  (lower. 
The  niinbou  laughingo'er  theshowci 


SMITH. 


607 


While  o'erthy  walls  the  darkness  sails, 
I  lean  against  tiie  churchyard  rails; 

Up  in  the  niidniglit  towers 
The  belfried  spire,  the  street  is  dead, 
I  hear  in  silence  overhead 

The  clang  of  iron  hours: 
It  moves  me  not  —  I  know  her  tomb 
Is  yonder  in  the  shapeless  gloom. 

All  raptures  of  this  mortal  breath, 
yolemnili<'S  of  life  and  death, 

Dwell  in  thy  noise  alone: 
Of  me  thou  hast  become  a  part  — 
Some  kindred  with  my  human  heart 

Lives  in  thy  streets  of  stone; 
For  we  have  been  familiar  more 
Than  galley-slave  and  weary  oar. 

The  beech  is  dipped  in  wine;  the 

shower 
Is  burnished ;  on  the  swinging  flower 


The  latest  bee  doth  sit 
The  low  sun  stares  through  dust  of 

gold. 
And  o'er  the  darkening  heath  and 
wold 
The  large  ghost-moth  doth  flit. 
In  every  orchard  Autumn  stands, 
With  apples  in  his  golden  hands. 

But  all  these  sights  and  sounds  are 

strange ; 
Then  wherefore  from  thee  should  I 

range  ? 
Thou  hast  my  kith  and  kin ; 
My  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood 

brave ; 
Thou  hast  that  unforgotten  grave 

Within  thy  central  din. 
A  sacredhess  of  love  and  death 
Dwells    in    thy    noise    and    smoky 

breath. 


Charlotte  Smith. 


THE   CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  luuuble  hearth; 
Whuresoe'cr  he  thine  abode, 
Always  harl)niger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  most  soft  and  sweet; 
In  return  tliou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  song  as  1  can  give. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
I'ormcd  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
'I'liou  s  -.rpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are; 
Theirs  is  but  a  sununer-song, 
Thine  endun-s  the  winter  long. 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  clear. 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  niglit  nor  dawn  of  <lay 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  lay: 
'i'hen,  insect !  let  thy  simple  song 
'  lifer  the  winter  evening  long; 
Willie,  secure  from  every  storm. 
In  my  cottage  stout  and  warm. 
Thou  shalt  my  merry  minstrel  l)e. 
And  I'll  delight  to  siieller  thee. 


THE   CLOSE   OF  SPRING. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so 
lately  wove, 
Each  simple  flower  which  she  had 
nursed  in  dew, 
Anemones  that  spangled  every  grove, 
The    primrose   wan,  and  harebell 
mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the 
dell. 
Or    pui-ple    orchis    variegate    the 
plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every 
bell, 
And  dress  with  humid  hands  her 
wreaths  again. 
Ah!    poor    humanity!    so    frail,    so 
fair, 
Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  eariv 
day, 
Till     tyrant    passion    and    corrosive 
care 
i?id  all  thy  fairy  colors  fade  away! 
Anoilier  May  new  buds  and  llower.-i 

shall  bring; 
Ah!  why  has  Ilupjiinenii  no   secom' 
Spring? 


508 


SMITH. 


Florence  Smith. 


[From  Jtainbfiie-Sniuj.i.] 
THE  rUllI'LK  OF  THE  I'OET. 

PUHIM.K,  the  i>:issionate  <'olor! 

I'urpU*,  the  t-olor  of  pain! 
I  clothi'  mysflf  in  tin'  rai»tnrc' — 

I  count  tins  sutTeriim  gain! 

The  soa  li<'S  gh'aniin'i  before  mo, 
Tale  in  the  smile  of  the  sun — 

No  shadow  —  all  {golden  and  azure  — 
Tiie  joy  of  the  day  has  begun ! 

Tlirobl)ing  and  yearnin'j;  forever, 
With  loM^inii  unsalislied.  sweet  — 

Flushed  with  tjie  pain  and  the  raptiuc. 
Warm  at  the  sun-god's  feet  — 

In  the  nlow  and  gloom  of  the  evening 
I'he   uloiy    is   reached  —  and  o'er- 
past ; 
Joy's  rose-bloom  has  ripened  to  pin- 
pie- 
'Twill  fade,  but  th«'  stars  shine  at 
last ! 

I'nrple,  the  itassionate  rolor! 

Ilobinu' the  martyr,  the  king  — 
Ueual  ifi  joy  and  in  anguish. 

Life's     blossom  ;     with,     ah!     its 
sting  — 

fthe  me  the  sovereign  rolor  — 
I'll  sutfer  that  1  may  reign! 

Tiie  jtoet's  moment  of  rapture 
Is  worth  the  poet's  |>ain! 


(  Eriiin  ttiiiiilMiir-Soili/n,] 

THE    i  E/.LOir   <>E   THE  MlSEIl. 

UK    iM'nutifnl   eolur  —  tlie  color  of 
gol.l ! 
Mow   it   s)iarkk'S  and   burns  in    tlir 

piled-nn  dust  ! 
'I'he  iKMft.sI  they  kj)o\\  noi.  they  nevir 

havi!  told 
<  If   the   fatleltuM  color,    the  color  of 
K<.|<l  — 
Of  my  _'od  In  whom  I  trust! 
Deep  down   in  the  earth   it  winds 
.11  111  J!  .  riTiis  — 


In  her  sluggish  old  veins  'tis  the  warm 
rieli  blood  — 

The  old  moiher-inonster!  how  sound- 
ly she  sleeps! 

Come!  nearest  her  heart,  where  the 
strong  life  leai)s  — 
We  drink,  we  bathe  in  the  floo<l! 

Ah,  the  far-off  days!  was  I  ever  a 

child  '> 
— My  brain  is  so  dark,  and  my  heart 

has  giown  cold. 
Those   lields  where  the  golden-eyed 

buttercups  smiled 
Long  a^o — did    I    love    them    witii 

heart  uiidi'iiled? 
Did  I.  seek  the  flowers  for  the 

goKI  '> 

IJe  still!  ()  thou  traitor  Ilemorse, 

at  my  lieait, 
WliiniuL;  without  in  the  dark  at  the 

door  — 
I  know   thee,  the   beggar  and    thief 

thai  tliou  art. 
Lying   low  at   my  threshold  —  I  bid 

thee  depart ! 
Thou  shall  dog  my  footsteps  no 

ninre. 

Will  thou  bring  me  the  faded  (low- 
ers of  my  youth  — 

\Viih  b.inds  full  of  dead  leaves,  and 
li|is  full  of  lies  — 

For  tiiese  shall  1  ^WV\  thee  my  treas- 
lUf,  in  sooth  ? 

,\re  the  itultereup's  petuU  pure  gold, 
say  I  ruth ! 
Wilt  thou   coin  me   the  daisy's 
eyes  \* 

I  hate  them!  the  smiling  tlowei-sin 
the  sun. 
And    the   yellow,  smooth   rays  that 
they  feed  on  at  noon  — 
lis  the  hard  cold  gold  I  will  hav«'  oi 
none! 
f'ome.  jiluek  me  the  stars  down,  on»: 
by  one, 
riant  me  the  pale  ricli  moon! 


SMITH. 


509 


Ah !  the  mystical  seed,  it  has  grown, 
it  lias  spread ! 
—  Bvit  the  sharp  star-points  they  are 

piercing  my  brow, 
And  the  rosy  home-faces  grow  livid 

and  dead 
In  the  terrible  color  tlie  fire-blossoms 
shed  — 
I  am  reaping  ray  harvest  in  now ! 

The  horrible  color  —  the   color  of 
flame ! 
The  hot  sun  has  o'erflowed  from  his 

broken  m-n  — 
O  thou  pitiless  sky !  wilt  thou  show 

me  my  shame  ? 
While  tlie  cmsed  gold  clings  to  my 
fingers  like  flame  — 
And  glitters  only  to  bum! 


SOMEBODY  OLDER. 

How  pleasant  it  is  that  always 

There's  somebody  older  than  yon- 
Some  one  to  pet  and  caress  you, 
Some  one  to  scold  you  too! 

Some  one  to  call  you  a  baby, 
To  laugh  at  you  when  you're  wise; 

Some  one  to  care  when  you're  sorry, 
To  kiss  the  tears  from  your  eyes. 

When  life  has  begim  to  be  weary. 
And  youth  to  melt  like  the  dew, 

To  know,  like  tbe  little  children. 
Somebody's  older  than  you! 

The  path  cannot  be  so  lonely. 
For  some  one  has  trod  it  before; 

The  golden  gates  are  the  nearer. 
That  some  one  stands  at  the  door  I 

—  I  can  think  of  nothing  sadder 
Than  to  feel,  when  days  are  few. 

rhere's  nobody  left  to  le<an  on. 
Nobody  older  than  you! 

The  younger  ones  may  be  tender 
To  the  feeljle  ste|)s  and  slow; 

B'lt  they   can't   talk   the  old   times 
over  — 
Alas!  how  should  they  know! 


'Tisa  romance  to  them  —  a  wonder 
You  were  ever  a  child  at  play ; 

But  the  dear  ones  waiting  in  Heavei; 
Know  it  is  all  as  you  say. 

I  know  that  the  great  All-Father 
Loves  us  and  the  little  ones  too* 

Keep  only  child-like  hearted  — 
Heaven  is  older  than  you ! 


UNREQUITING. 

I  CANNOT  love  thee,  but  I  hold  thee 
dear  — 
Thou  must  not  stay  —  I  cannot  bid 
thee  go! 
I  am  so  lonely,  and  the  end  draws 
near  — 
Ah,  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell 
me  so! 

'Tis  but  a  little  longer  —  keep  thy 
faith ! 
Though  love's  last  rapture  I  shall 
never  know, 
I  tain   woidd   trust  thee  even  unto 
(k>ath; 
Ah,  love  me  still,  but  do  not  telJ 
me  so ! 

I  am  so  poor  I  have  no  self  to  give. 
And  less  than  all  1  will  not  offer, 
no! 
I  die,  but  not  for  thee  —  fain  would 
I  live  — 
Ay!  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell 
me  so! 

Like  a  strange  flower  that  blossoms 
in  the  night. 
And  dies  at  dawn,  love  faded  long 
ago  — 
Horn  in  a  dream  it  perished  with  the 
light  — 
Lov'st  thou  me  st"!'  ?    Ah,  do  not 
tell  me  so! 

Let  me  imagine  that  thou  art  my 
friend  — 
No  less  —  no  more  I  ask  for  here 
below ! 
Be  pat  lent  with  me  even  to  the  end — 
Loving  me  still,  thou  wilt  not  te!) 
me  so ! 


510 


SMITH. 


Those  words  were  sweet  once — never 
more  ai^ain ! 
—  I   tliought    my  dream  had  van- 
ished. It't  ii  go  I 
I  dreamt-d  of  joy —  1  woke,  it  tm-ned 
to  pain —  ls«)! 

Ah,  love  me  still,  but  never  tell  mo 

I  cannot  lose  thee  yet,  so  near  to 
heaven ! 
TItere  witli  diviner  love  all  souls 
shall  glow ; 


There  is  no  marriag<>  boml.  no  vows 
art'  sjixfii  — 
Thou" It  love  me  still,   nor  need  to 
tell  me  so! 

Ah!  I  :im  scliisli.  asking  even  this  — 
i  cannot  love  ilieo,  nor  yet  bid  Iheo 
-o! 
To  utter  love  is  nigh  love's  dearest 
bliss  — 
Thou  lov'st  me  still,  and  dost  not 
tell  me  so! 


Horace  Smith. 

HYMN   TO  THE  FU>\Vb:us.         \  Uul  lo  that  fane,  most  catholic  and 

^                  .   .                                  ..1  1  solemn. 

Da v-STAKs !  that  op.>  your  eyes  with  ^  \S\x\v\\  (Jod  hath  i.lann.-d ; 
morn  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's    ,„     .,    .       .,     •     i    .         n 

„  .,;   ,.       "^  To  that  rathe  ii"al.  boundless  as  our 

creation, 


And  (lew-dri>jis  on  her  lonely  altars 
sprinkle 

As  a  libation! 

Ye  matin  worshippers!  who  bending 

lowly 

Hefun-    ihe    ui>risen    sun  —  (Jod's 

lidless  eye —  [holy 

Tlirow  from  your  ehalicesa  sweet  an  I 

Incense  on  higli! 

Ye  brigiit  mosaics!  that  with  st<jried 
Ix-auty 
The  tloor  of  Nature's  temple  les- 
sellate. 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instnu  - 
tive  duty 

Your  forms  create! 

'Xoath  eloistered  bouglis.  eaeli  floral 
bell  that  Hwingelli 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  i)asM- 
ing  air. 
Makes  sabliath  in  the  lields.  ami  ever 
ringeth 

A  call  to  jirayer. 


wonder, 

Whosi'  <)uenehles-   lamps  the  sun 
and  moon  supjily  — 
Its  choir,  the  wimls  and  waves  ;  its 
organ,  tlunider  , 

its  dome  the  sky. 

There — as  in  soliiude  and  shailo  I 
wander 
Through     Ihe     green     aisles,    or, 
stretched  uiK)!!  the  sod. 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  pon- 
der 

The  ways  of  <J»m1  — 

V<)ur   voiceless    lins.  ()    (lowers,  are 
living  preachers. 
Kach  cup  a  pid|)il.  ami  eacii  leaf  a 
book. 
Supplying'   lo   Miy    fau<v.    numerous 
teachers 

Krofn  loneliest  nook. 


Floral  itiiosilesl  that   in  dewv  Hjileu- 
dor 
"  \Vee]i    witliout    woe.    and     blusll 
Not  to   the  domes  where  eniml)lin','  wiihout  a  erinu'," 

arcli  and  colinnn  <>  mav  I   deej.ly  learn.  Jind  xw'nr  sur- 

Attest    the    ffiblencHs    (»f    mortal  i  render. 

liand,  I  Voiir  lore  sublimel 


SMITH. 


5n 


"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon !  in  all  lliy 
glory, 
Arrayed,"  the  lilies  C17,  "in  robes 
like  ours ; 
How  vain  your  grandeur!  Ah,  how 
transitory 

Are  human  tlowers!" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  Heav- 
enly Artist! 
With  which  thou  paiutest  Nature's 
wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful   lesson   thou   im- 
partest 

Of  love  to  all. 

Not  useless  are   ye,  flowers!  though 
made  tor  pleasure: 
Blooming  o'er  held  and  wave,  by 
day  and  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids 
me  treasure 

Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral    sages!   what  instructors 

hoary 
For  such  a  world  of  thought  could 

furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fadiiiu;  calyx  a  memento  mori. 

Yet  foimt  of  hope. 

Posthumous  glories!    angel-like  col- 
lection! 
ITpraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred 
in  earth. 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  (iod.  in  churchless  lands 
remaining, 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or 
diviiios. 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  thy 
ordaining. 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines! 


ADDRESS    TO  A   MUMMY. 

A.NI)  thou  hast  walked  about,  (how 
strange  a  stoiy!) 
In  Tlu'b;'s's  streets  three  thousand 
yeais  ago, 


When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its 
glory. 
And  Time  had  not  begun  to  over- 
throw 

Those    temples,    palaces,   and  piles 
stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremen- 
dous. 

Speak!    for  thou   long  enough   hast 

acted  dummy; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue  —  come  —  let 

us  hear  its  tune ; 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above 

ground,  mummy! 
Revisiting    the    glimpses    of    the 

moon  — .. 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied 

Creatures, 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and 

limbs,  and  featm-es. 

Tell  us  —  for   doubtless    thou  canst 

recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we    assign  the 

Sphinx's  fame  ? 
Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of  either  Pyramid  that  bears  his 

name  ? 
Is  Pomyiey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 
Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung 

by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason,  and  for- 
bidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secret  of  thy 
trade  — 

Then   say   what  secret  melody  was 
hidd<>n 
In  Meninon's  statue,  which  at  sun- 
rise iilayeil  ; 

Perhaps  thou  wert  ^  priest  —  if  so, 
my  struggles 

Are  vaiii.  for  i)riest('raft  never  owns 
its  juggles. 

Perhaps   that    very  hand,    now   pin- 
ioned (lat. 
lias   hob-a-nobbed  with   Pharaoh, 
glass  to  glass: 
Or  droi>ped  a  half-p<nnv  in  Homer's 
hat; 
Or  (lotTcd  Miine  own,  to  let  Queen 
Dido  pass; 


612 


SMITB. 


Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  iiiviliition, 
A  loicb  al  tht'givat  'lVnii»lc"sil<Mlk'a- 
tion. 

I  need  not   ask    ihoc   if  that   liainl. 

wluii  aniiiMl. 
1  las  any  Kuiuan  soliliir  luaiilitl  and 

kniickliMl : 
For  thou  wt  Ti  <l»ad,  ;uul  buiittl,  and 

iMnhahncd. 
Ere  Konndus  and  l{»'nnis  had  lu'en 

suckled; 
Antii|uity  api>ears  to  have  lu-gun 
Long  alliT  thy  primeval  rate  was  run. 

Thou  fould'st  develop  —  if  that  with- 
ered tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless 
orhs  ha\f  men  — 
IIow  the  world    looked  when  it  was 
fresh  and  young. 
And  the  great  Deluge  still  had  left 
it  green;  (pages 

Or  was   ii  then  so  old  that  history's 
( 'ontained  no  reeord  of  its  «'arly  ages  ? 

Mill  silent,  ineonununh-alive  elf ! 
Art  sworn  to  seereey  ".'  then  keep 
;!iy  vows; 

IJut   i)rvihe(!    tell   us    something    of 
thyself  — 
Keveal  the  soorots  of  thy  prison- 
house; 

Sinee   In   the  world   of  spirits  thou 
liasi  sjuniiiered  — 

What  hast  thou  seen  —  what  slninu'c 
adventures  nunihered  ? 

Sinet-  first   Ihy  form  was  in  this  l>o\ 

extended 
We  have    above  trround.  --len  sunje 

Htnince  mutations: 
1'lie    Homan  empire  has  Ixgiui  and 

ended  — 
N'.w  worlds  have  risen  —  we  have 

lost  old  nations; 
And  r-oimtlesH  kin^s   have   into   dusi 

tir4-n  hmidiled. 
While  not  a  frai;menl  of  ihy  tiesli  has 

eiiunliled. 


Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er 

tliy   head. 
When  ilie  great  Persian  conqueror 

( 'and)>st^s, 
Mar<hed  armies  o'er  thy  tondi  with 

lhun.!i  ring  irea<l  — 
O'erthrew    Osiris,      Oms,     Apis, 

Isis; 
Ami  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear 

and  wonder. 
When    the    gigantic    Menuion     fell 

asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  con- 
fessed. 
The  nature  of  thv  private  life  un- 
fold: 

A   heart    has  throbhed  beneath  that 
leatlu'i-n  breast, 
,\nd  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek 
have  rolled ; 

Have    ebiltiren  elimbed  th«)se   knees 
and  kissed  that  face  ; 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age 
and  race  ? 

Statue   of   fk«h!     Immortal  of  the 
dead ! 
Imperishable  type  of  evanescence! 

rosibunious    man.   who  (piit' st  thy 
narrow  bed. 
And  slandest  undecayed  within  our 
jtreseniM'I 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judg- 
ment morning. 

When    the  great    trumi)   shall    thrill 
thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegiunent 
I  ndure. 
If   its  undying  giiest  be  lost  for- 
ever '.' 

Oh!  let   us  keep  the  soul  embalmed 
and  pure 
Inlixim;  virtue-  that  when  i>oth 
must  sever. 

Although  corruption  may  otir  fnuiie 
eousume. 

Thr  inuiiorial  spirit  in  llio  skies  maj 
bloom! 


SMITH. 


513 


gate  to-night, 
I  fear  my  boy  could  hardly  enter  ino 


May  Riley  Smith. 

IF.  I  The  hands  that  should  have  battled 

.,,.,.,  ^1  for  the  right 

If,  sitting  with  this  little  worn-out       jj^^^g  ^^^^  ^^^.^^^,,  crimson  in  the 

.      sl»o«  ,  ,  .      ,   .  clasp  of  siu! 

And  scarlet  stocking  lying  on  my    ^,^^,  gjionia  he  kuock  at    Heaven's 

knee, 
I  knew  his  little  feet  had  pattered 

through 
The  pearl-set  gates  that  lie  'twixt 

lieavt'ii  and  me, 
I  should  be  reconciled  and  happy  too, 
And  look  with  glad  eyes  toward  the 

jasper  sea. 

If,  in  the  morning,  when  the  song  of 
birds. 
Reminds  me  of  lost  music  far  more 
sweet, 
I  listened  for  his  pretty  broken  words. 
And  for  the  music  of  his  dimpled 
feet, 
I  could  be  almost  happy,  though  I 
heard 
^^o  answer,   and  I  saw  his  vacant 
seat. 

could   be  glad  if,  when  the  day  is 

done. 

And  all  its  cares  and  heart-aches 

laid  away,  [sun, 

I  could  look  westward  to  the  hidden 

And,  with  a   heart  full   of    sweet 

yearnings,  say  — 

"  To-night  I'm  nearer  to  my  little  one 

By  just  the  travel  of  a  single  day." 

If  he  were  dead,  I  should  not  sit  to- 
day 
And  stain  with  tears  the  wee  sock 
on  my  knee; 
I  should  not  kiss  ijie  tiny  sho<?  and  say, 
"Bring  back  again  my  little  boy 
to  me! " 
I  should  be  patient,  knowing  it  was 
God's  way. 
And  wait  to  meet  him  o'er  death's 
silent  sea. 

But  oh!  (n  know  the  feet,  once  pure 
and  whit(^ 
The  haunts  of  vice  have  boldly  ven- 
tured in! 


SOMETIME. 

SoMETi.ME,    when    all  life's   lessons 

have  been  learned, 
^\.nd    Sim  and    stars    forevermore 

have  sjft. 
The    things    which    our  weak  judg- 
ments here  have  spurned. 
The  .things  o'er  which  we  grieved 

with  Fashes  wet. 
Will  flash  before  us  out  of  life's  dark 

night. 
As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints 

of  blue; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans 

are  right. 
And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was 

love  most  true. 

And   we    shall  see    how,   while   we 
frown  and  sigh, 
God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you 
and  me; 
How,  when  we  called.  He  heeded  not 
om*  cry. 
Because    His  wisdom  to  the  end 
could  see. 
And  e'en  as  prudent  parents  disallow 
Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  baby- 
hood. 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us 
now 
Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it 
seemeth  good. 

And  if,  sometimes,  commingled  w  ith 
life's  wine. 
We  lind   tlie  worm  wood,  and   rebel 
and  shrink. 
Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or 
mine 
Pours  out  the  potion  for  our  lips  to 
drink; 


014 


SOUTUET. 


And  il  some  friend  we  love  is  lyinj? 

low, 
sVliLTe  human  kisses  cannot  rearli  his 

face, 
( )h,  do  not  hlame  the  loving  Father  so. 
But  wear   your  sorrow    witli  ol)('- 

dient  grace ! 

And   you    shall    shortly   know    that 
lengthened  hreatii 
Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  (Jod  sends 
Ills  friend. 
And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  jiall 
of  death 
Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love 
can  send.  |lif<', 

'f  we  could   i)ush  ajar  the  gates   of 
And   stand   within  and   all    (Jod's 
workings  see, 


We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  an«I 

-strife  [key. 

And  for  each  mystery  could  (ind  a 

Hut  not   tculay.      Then   i)e  cont«'nt, 

poor  heart ; 
(Jod's  plans   like    lilies    pure  and 

white  unfold; 
We    must    not    tear    the   close-shut 

leaves  a|)arl,  I  gold. 

Time  will    nneal   the    calyxes    of 

And    if.    throuu'h    patient    toil,    we 

reach  the  land 
Where     tired     feet,  with     sandals 

loosed,  nuiy  rest. 
When    Wf   sliall    clearly   know    and 

understand. 
I    tliink.  that    we  shall   say,    "God 

knew  the  btest! " 


Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 


LAUNCH   T//y   li.lUK,    MAHIM.l: 

LAr\«n  thy  liark.  mariner! 

Christian,  (iod  sjjced  liiee; 
Let  loose  the  nuldfr  hands, 

(iood  augrls  lead  thee! 
Set  thy  sails  warily. 

Tempests  will  come; 
Steer  thy  course  stradily. 

Christian,  steer  home! 

Look  to  the  weather  bow, 
Hnakers  are  round  thee; 

Ivct  fall  till*  phmuiK-l  now, 
Shallows  may  giounti  thee. 

Hcef  in  the  foresail,  (here! 
Hold  th.-  helm  fast! 

.So —  let  the  Vessel  Wear,  — 
There  swept  the  blast. 

What  of  the  night,  waleliman  '.' 

Wh.il  of  the  night  ? 
'•  (  liMiiIy,  all  c|ulet,  — 

No  land  yet.  — all's  rii;ht." 
He  wakeful,  be  vigilant,  — 

Danger  may  Ite 
At  .111  hour  when  all  seenieth 

.Seeiirest  to  thee. 

How!  iralns  the  leak  so  fast? 
Clear  out  the  hold,  — 


Hoist  up  thy  merchandise. 

Heave  out  thy  gold; 
Tiiere.  let  the  ingots  go;  — 

Now  the  ship  rights; 
Hurrah  I  the  liarlior's  lu^ar, — 

Lo!  the  red  lights. 

.Slacken  not  .sail  yet 

.Vt  iidet  or  island; 
.Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Strai-ht  for  the  liigh  laud; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on. 

Cut  fhrouuh  the  foam;  — 
Christian!  cast  anchor  now, — 

Heaven  is  thy  home! 


Tin:  /•.  I II' Kit's  DKA  rn  itKD. 

Tkkaii  softly!  bow  the  head  — 
In  rcveri'iit  silenc*-  iiow! 

No  passing  licll  doth  toll; 

Vel  an  immortal  soul 
Is  jiassing  now. 

.Stranger,  however  gre.-if. 

With  lowly  reverence  i>ow! 
There's  one  in  that  p(»or»h«d^ 
One  by  liial  paltry  bed  — 

Gruuler  than  thou. 


SOUTHET. 


515 


Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo!  Death  doth  keep  his  state! 
Enter!  —  no  crowds  attend  — 
Enter !  —  no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold 
No  smiling  comtiers  tread; 

One  silent  woman  stands. 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  liead. 

No  mingling  voices  sound  — 

An  infant  wall  alone; 
A  sob  suppressed  —  again 
That  short  deep  gasp  —  and  then 

The  parting  groan ! 

O  change !  —  O  wondrous  change ! 

Burst  are  the  ]>rison  bars ! 
This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized  —  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars ! 


O  change !  —  stupendous  change! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod! 
The  sun  eternal  l)reaks; 
The  new  immortal  wakes  — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 


/  NEVER   CAST  A   FLOWER  AWAY, 

I  NEVER  cast  a  flower  away, 
Tlie  gift  of  one  who  cared  for  me  — 

A  little  flower  —  a  faded  flower  — 
But  it  was  done  reluctantly. 

I  never  looked  a  last  adieu 
To  things  familiar,  but  my  heart 

Shrank  with  a  feeling  almost  pain 
Even  from  their  lifelessness  to  part. 

I  never  spoke  the  word  "  Farewell," 
But  with  an  utterance  faint  and 
broken ; 

An  earth-sick  longing  for  the  time 
When  it  shall  uevennore  be  spoken, 


Robert  Southey. 


{Frnni  Thalabn.] 

NATURE'S  QUESTION  AND  FAITH'S 
ANS  WER. 

Alas  !  the  setting  sun 
Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss, 
Hodcirali's  wife  beloved. 
Alas!  the  wife  beloved. 
The  fruitful  inotlirr  late. 
Whom  when  the  daughters  of  Arabia 
named. 
They  wished  their  lot  like  hers, — 
She  wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands 
A  wietched  widow  now; 
The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a  race, 
Willi  iiuly  one  preservcul. 
She  wanders  o'er  tlie  wilderness. 

No  tear   r(;lieved  the  burden  of 
her  heart; 
Stunned  with  the  heavy  woo,  she 
felt  like  one. 
Half-wakened  from  a  midnight  dream 
of  l)lood. 
But  sometimes,  when  the  boy 


Would  wet  her  hand  with  tears. 
And,  looking  up  to  her  fixed  coun- 
tenance. 
Sob  out  the  name  of  mother!    then 
she  groaned. 
At  length  collecting,  Zeinab  turned 
her  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  praised  the  Lord: 
"  He  gave,  he  takes  away!  " 
The  pious  sufferer  cried ; 
"  The  Lord  our  God  is  good ! " 

"  Good,  is  he  ?"  (juoth  the  boy: 
"Wliy  are  my  brethren  and  my  sis- 
ters slain  ? 
AVTiy  is  my  father  killed  ? 
Did  ever  we  neglect  our  prayers. 
Or   ever   lift    a    hand  unclean  to 
Heaven  ? 
Did  ever  stranger  from  our  tent 
ITnwelcomed  turn  away  ? 
Mother,  lb'  is  not  good!" 

Then    Zeinab   beat    her    brcasi    iit 
agony, — 
"O  God,  forgive  the  child.' 


OiO 


SOUTUEY. 


He  knows  not  what  he  says; 
Thou  know'st   I  diil   not  teach  him 
ihoui,'lils  likf  ihcsr; 
U  Propin'l,  pardon  him!" 

She  hail  not  wept  till  that  assiwiL'- 

ini;  prayer  ; 
The   fountains   of    her  grief    wir. 
opened  then, 
Anil  tears  relieved  her  heart. 
She  raised  her  swimming  eyes  to 
heaven. — 
"Allah!  ihy  will  be  done! 
Beneath  I  he  dispensations  of  that 
will 
1  groan,  but  munnur  not. 
A  day  will    eome  when  all  things 
thai  are  dark 
Will    be   made   clear:    then    shall    I 
know,  ( t  Lord  ! 
Why,    in    thy    mercy,    thou    hast 
stricken  me; 
Then  see  and  understand   what 
now 
My  heart  believes  and  feels." 


[Frarn  Thfilaba,] 
liK.MKDIAL   SVFFERISn. 

"  Repine  not,  O  my  son  I"  the  old 
man  re|)lied, 
"Thai  Heaven  hath  chastened  tine. 
Behold  this  vine: 
1  foimd   it   a  wild  tree,  whose  wan- 
ton strength 
Had  swobi  into  irri'gular  twigs. 

And  bojil  exi-rescences, 
.\nd   s]>eni   itself   in   leaves  and   iii- 
tle  rinns; 
,So,    in    the    nourish    of    its    out- 
wanlness, 
Wastiiifx  the  sap  and  strength 

That     Hhoulil     liave    given     forth 
fruit. 
\U\\  when  I  primed  theidant. 

Tiien    it     j^n-w   U'mjH^nite     In    it-- 
vain  expense 
Of    useless   Jeaves,  and    kimlled,    an 
I  lion  seesl. 
Int4>   tliesf   full,  clcjir  chisU'rs,   tn 
reijay 


The  hand  that  wisely  wounded  it. 

Kepine  not.  O  my  son  ! 
in    wisdom    and    in    mercy   Ileavei 
inflicts 

Its  painful  remedies." 


[  Fmm  Thalaba.] 

/■///.  riroFOLj)  rowKii  of  all 
III  IS  as. 

A  I.I,  lliiiiL^s  hav»;  a  double  power, 
.Mike  lor  good  and  evil.    The  same 
(ire. 
That  on  the  comfortable  hearth 
at  eve 
Warmed  the  good  man.  (lames  o'er 
the  hoil.se  at  night: 
.Should  we  for  liiis  forego 
The  needful  element  ? 
IJecause    the    scorching  summer 
sun 
Darts  fever,  wouldst  thou  <iuench  the 
orb  of  day  ? 
Or  deemest   thou  that  Heaven  in 
angcM-  formed 
Iron     to    till     the   field,    becau.se, 

when  man 
Had  tipt  bis  arrows  for  the  chase, 
he  ruslu'd 
A  murderer  to  the  war  ? 


[From  Tfiiilatm.'] 
NIOIIT. 

How  beautiful  isnlKdii ! 
.\  dewv  freshness  fills  the  silent 
air; 
\o  mi.st  obscures,  nor  cloud  nor  six'ck 
nor  stuin 
Hn'aks  the  serene  of  heaven ; 
In  full-orbed  glory  yonder  moon 
divin»' 
Rolls   thrnngh.fhe   dark    blue 

d.'plbs. 
Hene.ifb  her  steady  my 
The  desert -«Mrc|e  spreads, 
liike  thi'    round   ocean,  irirdled  with 
the  sky. 
ilou  beautiful  is  nightl 


SOUTHEY. 


617 


l  *'>om  The  Curse  of  Kehama.'] 
LOVE'S  IMMORTALITY. 

TuEY  siu  who  tell  us  love  can  die. 
With  life  all  other  passions  lly, 

^Ul  others  are  but  vanity. 
In   heaven,  Ambition  eannot  dwell, 
Nor  Avarice  in  tlu;  van) Is  of  liell; 
Earthly,  these  passions  of  tiie  earth 
They   perish   where   they  had   their 
birth. 

But  Love  is  indestructible. 
Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth, 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  re- 

turneth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest. 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  ojjpressed. 

It  here  is  tried  and  ])mitied. 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest; 
It  sowetli  here  with  toil  and  care. 
But  the  iiarvest-timeof  Love  is  there. 
Oh!  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy. 
Hath   she   not  then,   for   pains  and 
fears, 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night. 
For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight! 


THE   OLD    MAtPS   COMFORTS,   AND 
HOW   HE  GAINED   THEM. 

You   are    old.    Father  William,   the 
young  man  cried. 
The  few  locks  that  are  left  you  are 
gray: 
You    are    hale.    Father    William,    a 
hearty  old  man, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  Wil- 
liam replied. 
I  rememlurcil  that  youth  woidd  fly 
fast. 
And  al»us(Ml  not  my  health  and  my 
vitior  at  (irst. 
That  I   never  mi'.dit  need  them  at 
last. 

You    are   old.    Father   William,    the 
yoimsr  n)an  cried, 
And    pleasures    with    youth    pass 
away, 


And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that 
are  gone, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth.  Father  Wil- 
liam replied, 
I  remembered  that  youth  could  not 
last; 
I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  1 
did. 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the 
past. 

Ton  are   old.   Father  William,    the 
young  man  cried. 
And  life  must  be  hastening  away: 
You  are   cheerful,  and   love  to  con- 
verse upon  death ! 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I   am  cheerful,   yoimg  man,  Father 
William  replied ; 
Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage; 
In   the  days  of   my  youth  I  remem- 
bered my  God ! 
And  he  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 


[  From.  Joan  of  Arc] 

THE  MAID   OF  ORLEANS   GIRDING 
FOR  BATTLE. 

ScAKCE    had  the  earliest  ray  from 

Chinon's  towers 
Made  visible  the  mists  that  curled 

along 
The  winding  waves  of  Vienne,  when 

from  her  couch 
Started     the     martial     maid.       She 

mailed   her  limbs; 
The  white  phunes  nodded  o'er  her 

helmed  liead; 
She  girt  the  sacred  falchion  by  her 

side. 
And,  like  some  youth  that  from  his 

mother's  arms. 
For   his  first  field  impatient,  breaks 

away. 
Poising  the  lance  tvent  forth. 

Twelve  hundred  men, 
Hearing  in  onlered  ranks  their  well- 
sharped  spears, 


518 


BOUTHEi: 


Await  her  coming.     Terrible  in  arms, 
Before    tliem    towered   Dunois,    his 

manly  face 
Dark-.shadowcil  by  the  helmet's  iron 

cheeks. 
Tlie  assembli'tl  court   gazed  on    the 

niarshallcd  train. 
And  at  !li«'  1,'atr  till-  am-d  prelatestood 
To  pour  his  blessing  on  the  chosen 

host. 
And   now  a   soft  and   solonni  sym- 

l>hony 
Was  heanl.    and   chanting  high   the 

hallowed  hynni, 
From  the  near  convent  came  the  ves- 

t;(l  maids. 
A   holy    banner,    woven    by    virgin 

liands, 
Snow-wliitc,  they   bore.     A   niingled 

sentiment 
Of    awe,    and    eager    ardor   for   the 

fig'ht. 
Thrilled  through  the    troops,  as  he 

the  reverend  man 
Took  the  white  standard,  and  with 

heavenward  eye 
Called  on  fh(>  God  of  Justice,  bless- 
ing it. 
The   m.iid.   Inr  brows    in   reverrncc 

unhehMcd. 
lli'idark  hair  tiualing  «»n  the  morn- 
ing gale, 
Knelt  to  his  prayer,  and  .stretching 

forth  her  hand, 
Keceivcid  the  mystic  ensign.     PVoni 

the  host 
A   loud  and    universal    shout    bm-st 

forth. 
As  rising  from  the   ground,  on  her 

white  brow 
.Slic  placed  the  phim6d  casquc,  and 

waved  on  high 
'ITie  bannered  lilies. 


T/li:   IK  HI.  Y-rHKR. 

O  HEAiiKu!  ha.Ht  thou  ever  stood  to 
see 
The  holly-trep? 
The   eye    that    contemplates   it   well 
perci'ives 
It»  glu«.Hy  leaves 


Onlcred  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As    might    confound     the    atheist 'i 
soi)histries. 

Jielow,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are 

seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen, 
No     grazing    cattle    through     their 

prickly  romid 
Can  reach  to  wound; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is 

to  fear. 
Smooth   and  unarmed  tlie  pointless 

leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  cu- 
rious eyes, 
.And  moralize: 
And  in  the  wis<lom  of  the  holly-tree 

<  'an  emblems  ,see 
AVhcrewith     perchance    to    make    a 

l>leasant  rhyme, 
Such  as  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

So,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might 
aj.iM'ar 
Harsh  and  austere. 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  in- 
trude 
Iteserved  and  nide; 

(Jcntle  at  home  ;imid  my  friends  I'd 
be, 

hiki-  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly- 
t  rcc. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youtb  is  apt, 
I  know, 
.'^oine  harshness  sliow. 
All  vain  asi><rities.  1  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away. 
Till   the  smooth   temjier  of   my   age 

should  be 
Like  the  high  Icavis  m|ioii  the  holly 
tree. 

And  as  when  all  the  summer  trees 
are  seen 
.So  l)rlght  and  green 
The  holly  lia\es  tlieir  fadeless  hues 
liisplay 
Less  bright  than  they. 
But  wIh'U  the  bare  and  wintry  woods 

we  sec. 

What  thill  so  cheerful  as  the  holly- 
tree  i' 


SOUTHET. 


519 


So  serious  should  my  youth  appear 
among 
The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seeiu  amid  the  young  and 

gay 
More  grave  than  they, 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 


THE   PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 

What!  and  not  one  to  heave  the 
pious  sigh  ? 

Not  one  whose  sorrow-swollen  and 
,        aching  eye 

For  social  scenes,  for  life's  endear- 
ments fled, 

Shall  drop  a  tear  and  dwell  upon  the 
dead! 

Poor  wretched  outcast!  I  will  weep 
for  thee, 

And  sorrow  for  forlorn  humanity. 

Yes,  I  will  weep;  but  not  that  thou 
art  come 

To  the  stern  sabbath  of  the  silent 
tomb : 

For  squalid  want,  and  the  black  scor- 
Ijion  care, 

Heart-withering  fiends'  shall  nevei- 
enter  there. 

I  sorrow  for  the  ills  thy  life  hath 
known, 

As  through  the  world's  long  pilgrim- 
age, alone, 

Haunted  by  poverty,  and  woebegone. 

Unloved,  unfriended,  thou  didst  jom- 
ney  on : 

Thy  youth  in  ignorance  and  labor 
past, 

And  thine  old  age  all  barrenness  and 
blast. 

Hard  was  thy  fate,  which,  while  it 
doomed  to  woe, 

Denied  thee  wisdom  to  support  the 
blow ; 

And  robbed  of  all  its  energy  thy  mind, 

Ere  yet  it  cast  thee  on  thy  fellow- 
kind. 

Abject  of  thought,  the  vidim  of  dis- 
tress, 

To  wander  in  the  world's  wide  wilder- 
ness. 


Poor  outcast,  sleep  in  peace!  the  win- 
try stonn 

Blows  bleak  no  more  on  thy  unshel* 
tered  form; 

Thy  woes  are  past;  thou  restest  in 
the  tomb ;  — 

I  pause,  and  ponder  on  the  days  to 
come. 


WRITTEN  ON  SUNDAY  MORNING. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  house   of 

prayer ! 
I  to  the  woodlands  wend,  and  there 
In  lovely  iiature  see  the  God  of  love. 
The  swelling  organ's  peal 
Wakes  not  my  soul  to  zeal. 
Like   the    wild   music  of  the  wind- 
swept grove. 
The  gorgeous  altar  and  the  mystic 

vest 
Rouse  not  such  ardor  in  my  breast. 
As  where  the  noon-tide  beam 
Flashed  from  the  bioken  stream, 
Quick  vibrates  on  the  dazzled  sight; 
Or  where  the  cloud-suspended  rain 
Sweeps  in  shadows  o'er  the  plain; 
Or  when  reclining  on  the  cliff's  huge 

height, 
I   mark  the  billows  burst  in  silver 
light. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  house  of 

prayer ! 
I  to  the  woodlands  shall  repair. 
Feed  with  all  nature's  charms  mine 

eyes, 
And  hear  all  nature's  melodies. 
The  primrose  bank  shall  there  dis- 
pense 
Faint  fragrance  to  the  awakened 

sense: 
The  morning  beams  that  life  and 

joy  impart, 
Shall  with  their  influence  warm  mv 

heart. 
And    the    full   tear    that  down  my 

cheek  will  steal, 
Shall  speak  the  prayer  of  praise  I 

feel. 


r;o    thou    and  seek  the  house 
prayer! 


oi 


520 


SOI  T/JEY. 


I  to  the  woodliiiuls  hiMiil  my  way 

Aiul  lUfi'l  IJcliu'ioii  llieiv. 
biie  needs  uol  liiiuiii  ilie  liigli-;uvheil 

(luiiit-  to  pray 
Where    storied  windows      dim      the 

donlitfiil  ihiy. 
With  Lilitriy  siie  loves  to  rove. 
Wide  (j'<r  tlie  heailiv  hill  or  cow- 

slipt  tlale; 
Or  seek  the  shelter  of  the  embower- 
ing grove, 
Or  with  the  streamlet  wind  alonu; 

the  vale. 
Sweet  are   these  seenes  to  her;  avid 

when  the  nitiht 
Poius  in  tlie  nortii  her  silver  streams 

of  light. 
She    woos    retlection    in    the    silent 

gloom, 
And  ponders  on  the  woild  to  come. 


T//E   RATTLE    OF  lil.r.SIIEIM. 

1 1  was  a  sununer  evening. 

Old  Kasjiar's  work  was  done; 
And  he  before  hi«  cottage  door 

Wa.s sitting  in  ihe  sun. 
And  by  him  si)oit.d  on  Ihe  green 
His  little  grundchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  .saw  her  biotlit  r  Teterkin 
Koll  something  lar„'e  and  round, 

That  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there,  had  found; 

He  came  to  ask  what  h(*  had  found, 

'I  hat  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and 
round, 

Oid  Kas))artook  it  from  tlie  boy, 

Wlio  stood  cxper-t.'tnl  by; 
.Vnd  then  the  old  man  ->hookhis  iieAd, 

.\nd  with  a  natural  si;;h. 
'Tissome  poor  felhtwVs  skull,  said  he, 
Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

I  find  them  in  tlie(;anien.  for 

'i  here's  many  hereabout. 
.Villi  often  wbiii  I  uo  l<i  ploiiu'h. 

The   ploui.'h'-liare  Hull-  llniii  out; 
i'or  umnv  thuiisaiid  men,  saiil  he, 
Wore  ululii  in  the  great  viclory. 


Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  abottt, 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries. 
And  littU'  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes; 
Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
Ami  what  they  killed  each  other  fok. 

IL  was  the  English,  Kaspar  cried, 
That  put  the  Kreneh  to  rout; 

But  what  they  killed  each  other  for 
1  could  not  well  make  out. 

Ihit  everybody  said,  quoth  be, 

That  "twas  a  famous  victory. 

My  fatlx-r  lived  at  Hlenheini  then. 
Yon  little  stream  hard  liy. 

They    burnt     his    dwelling     to     l\^i. 
ground. 
And  lie  was  forced  to  fly; 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  lied. 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  luail. 

With    fire    and   sword     the    countrv 
round 
Was  wa-ted  far  and  wide, 
.\nd  many  a  ebilding  mother  then, 

.\nd  new-born  infant,  died  ; 
ISiit  thing's  like  that,  you  know,  must 

lie 
At  I'vciy  famous  victory. 

They  say  it  was  a  .shocking  sight, 

.\fterthe  field  was  won. 
For  many  ihoiisaiid  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun; 
Hut  tilings  like  that,  you  know,  must 

be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

Oreal    pnilse   the  Duke  of  Marlbro' 
won. 

Ami  our  good  T*riiice  Kiigene. 
Why,  'twas  u  very  wiekt-tl  thing! 

.Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
Nay  —  nay  —  my  little  girl,  quoth  he, 
It  was  a  famous  victory. 

An<l  everyliody  praised  tlie  Duke 
Who  such  a  tight  did  win. 

Hut  what  uooil  came  of  it  at  hut? 
C/uoth  little  I'eterkin. 

Why,  that  I  e.imiot  tell,  said  be, 

liut  'twas  a  fumuuji  victory. 


sou  THEY. 


521 


THE  CATALACT  OF  LODORE. 

"  How  (loos  tlip  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore!" 
My  little  l)oy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time; 

And  moreover  lie  tasked  me 

To  tell  him  in  rliyme. 

Anon,  at  tlic  word; 

There  first  eam<'  (nic  daughter, 

And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  tlurd 

The  request  of  their  brother; 

And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar. 

As  many  a  lime 
They  had  seen  it  l)efore. 
So  1  told  them  in  rliyme. 

For  of  rhymes  1  had  store; 

And  'twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing; 

Because  1  w  as  laureate 
To  them  and  the  king. 


From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 
F'rom  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills  and  its  gills; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake, 

And  llience  at  departing. 

Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  tlu'ough  the  reeds. 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

Thi'ougli  meadow  and  glade. 

In  sun  anil  in  shade. 
.\nd  througli  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Ilurry-skurry, 
Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
.Aud  there  it  lies  darkling; 
Now  smoking  and  fi-oiidug 
Us  tumult  and  wratli  in. 
Till,  in  this  rapid  race 
On  winch  it  is  lient. 
It  reachi's  liie  ])lac« 
Of  its  steep  descaiit. 


The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 
Rising  and  leaping. 
Sinking  and  creeping. 
Swelling  and  sweeping. 
Showering  and  springing, 
Flying  and  Hinging. 
Writhing  and  ringing. 
Eddying  and  whisking. 
Spouting  and  frisking. 
Turning  and  twisting, 
Arotiiid  and  around 
With  endless  rebound: 
Smiting  and  fighting 
A  sight  to  delight  in; 
Confounding,  astounding. 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with 
its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting. 
Receding  and  speeding. 
And  sho(;king  and  rocking. 
And  darting  and  parting. 
And  threading  and  spieading. 
And  whizzing  and  hissing. 
And  (hipping  and  skijjping, 
And  liittingand  splitting, 
And  shining  and  twiiung, 
And  rattling  and  battling. 
Ami  shaking  and  (piaking. 
And  pouring  and  roaring. 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing. 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning. 
And  foaming  and  roaming. 
And  dinning  and  spinning. 
And  tlropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking. 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning; 
And  glittering  and  frittering. 
And  gathering  and  feathering, 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
Aud  (piivering  ami  shivering. 
And  hurrying  and  skurryiug, 
And  tlumdtringand  floundering; 

Dividing  ami  gliding  and  sHding. 
And     falling     an<l     brawling    ami 
sprawling, 


5t>2 


SOl'TIIEY 


And  drivinc:  and  riving  and  striv- 

iiif,'. 
And  si)rinkling  and  twinkling  and 

wrinkling. 
And  sonnding  and  bounding  and 

rounding. 
And   bubbling  and   troubling  and 

doubling. 
And  1,'ninibling  and  rumbling  and 

tumbling. 
And  clatlcrHig  and  battering  and 

sbattering; 


Retreating  and  bi'ating  and  meeting 

and  .sbccting. 
Delaying  and   straying  and   playing 

and  spraying. 
Advancing  aiiii  ]>rancing  and  glancing 

and  (laming. 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and 

boiling, 
And    gleaming  and    streaming    and 

steaming  ami  Ix-aming, 
And  rusliiii^  and  liusbing  and  brusb- 

ing  and  gusliing. 
And  tlappinu  and  rapping  and  clap- 

]iiiig,  and  slapiiing. 
And  curling  ami  wbirling  and  piul- 

ing  and  twirling. 
And    tbumping  and    plumping    and 

bumping  ami  jum])ing. 
And  dasbing  and  tiasbingand  splasli- 

iiig  and  clasbing; 
And  so  nuver  tMiding,  but  alway.s  de- 

sc'i-nding, 
Hounds  autl  motions  forever  and  ever 

are  blending 
All   at    om-e,   and    all   o'er,   witli   a 

niigbty  ui>roar,  — 
And  Ibis  way,  I  bo  water  comes  down 

at  Lodon.'. 


Tin:  i:itit-Tii>K. 

Si.owi.Y  I  by  flowing  tide 
Came   in,   oM    A  von  I    .scarcely    diil 

mine  4'yes, 
Aft  waiiliiiiliv   I   roamed  tby   fp*et'n- 

wortd  slili', 
Bebultl  ibe  gcntb;  rise. 


Witb  many  a  stroke  and  strong, 
Tbe  laboring  boaimen   upward  plieti 

tbcir  oars, 
And  yet  tbe  eye  bebeld  (bem  labor 
'ing  long 
Between  tby  winding  sborcs. 

Now  down  tblno  ebbing  tide 
The    unlabored     boat    falls    rapidly 

along, 
Tbe  solitary  behusman  sits  to  guide, 

And  sings  an  idle  .song. 

Now  o'er  tbe  rocks,  tbai  lay 
So  .silent   late,  tbe   shallow    current 

roars ; 
Fast  flow  tby  waters  on  their  sea- 
ward way  • 
Through  wiiler-spreading  shores. 

Avon!  I  gaze  and  know! 
The  wisdom  emblemed  in   tby  vary- 
ing way. 
It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so 
slow, 
So  rapidly  decay. 

Kingdoms  that  long  have  stood. 
And  .slow  to  slrenu'ihand  power  at 

tained  at  lasl. 
Thus   from  the  sunuuit  of  high  for- 
tune's Hood 
Ebb  to  their  ruin  fast. 

So  fanlily  ai)p»'ars 
'i'be  course  of  tim»'  to  manhood's  en- 
vied stage, 
.Masl    bow    burryingly    the    ebbing 
years 
'I'hen  hasten  to  oM  agel 


TO  Tin:  Finn. 

.My    friendly  lire,  thou  blazest   clear 
.-md  bright, 
Nor  smoke  nor  aslM's.soil  Ihv  i^rafe- 
ful  (lame; 
Thy    temiicrale    splendor  cheirs  t\\e. 
gloom  of  nigbl, 
Thy      genial      beat     enlivens    Llio 
chilled  frame. 


SOUTHWELL. 


623 


I  love  to  muse  me  o'er  the  evening 
lioarth, 
I   love    to  pause    in   meditation's 
sway; 

And  wliilst  each  object  gives  reflec- 
tion birth, 
Mark   thy  brisk  rise,  and  see  thy 
slow  decay ; 

And  I  would  wish,  like  thee,  to  shine 
serene. 


Like  thee,  within  mine  influence, 

all  to  cheer; 
And  wish  at  last    in  life's  declining 

scene, 
As  I  had  beamed  as  bright,  to  fade 

as  clear: 
So  might  my  children  ponder  o'ermy 

shrine. 
And  o'er  my  ashes  muse,  as  I  will 

muse  o'er  thine. 


Robert  Southwell. 


CONTENT  AND  RICH. 

My  conscience  is  my  crown; 

Contented  thoughts,  my  rest; 
My  heart  is  happy  in  itself. 

My  bliss  is  in  my  breast. 

Enough  I  reckon  wealth; 

That  mean,  the  surest  lot, 
That  lies  too  high  for  base  contempt. 

Too  low  for  envy's  shot. 

My  wishes  are  but  few; 

All  easy  to  fulfil : 
I  make  the  limits  of  my  power 

The  bounds  unto  my  will. 

I  fear  no  care  for  gold, 

\Vell-<loiiig  is  my  wealth; 
My  mind  to  me  an  empire  is, 

While  grace  affordetli  health. 


I  clip  high-climbing  thoughts, 
The  wings  of  swelling  pride; 

Their  fall  is  worst  that  from  the  height 
Of  greatest  honor  slitie. 


.Since  sails  of  largest  size 
The  storm  doth  soonest  tear, 

I  bear  so  low  and  small  a  sail 
As  freeth  me  from  fear. 

I  wrestle  not  with  rage 

While  fury's  tlame  doth  bum; 


It  is  in  vain  to  stop  the  stream 
Until  the  tide  doth  turn. 

IJut  when  the  tlame  is  out, 
.Vnd  ebbing  wrath  doth  end.. 

I  turn  a  late  enraged  foe 
Into  a  quiet  friend. 

And,  taught  with  often  proof, 

A  tempered  calm  I  find 
To  be  most  solace  to  itself. 

Best  cure  for  angry  mind. 

Spare  diet  is  my  fare. 

My  clothes  more  fit  than  fine 
1  know  i  feed  and  clothe  a  foe, 

That  pampered  would  repine. 

I  envy  not  their  hap 
Whoiu  favor  doth  advance; 

1  take  no  pleasm-e  in  their  pain 
That  have  less  happy  chance. 

To  rise  by  others'  fall 

I  deem  a  losing  gain; 
All  states  with  others'  ruin  built 

To  ruin  rim  amain. 

No  change  of  Fortune's  calm 
Can  cast  my  comforts  down: 

Wlien  Fortune  smiles,  I  smile  to  tliinfe 
How  quickly  she  will  frown. 

And  when,  in  froward  mood, 

Shi'  proved  an  angiy  foe, 
Small  gain,  I  found,  to  let  her  come  — 

Less  loss  to  lt;t  her  go. 


b-14 


SPENCER  —  SPKXSEB. 


Robert  William  Spencer. 


THE  SPEED   OF  ll.H'I'r    //(>//.>. 

Too  late  I  stayed— foiiiive  the cTiiuo — 

rnhctMled  tlew  tlu-  iuiui-s: 
How  uoisfless  falls  tin-  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  llowei-s! 

And  who,  with  dear  account,  reiuark.s 
'I'lie  L'bbiugs  of  liis  glass. 


When    all    its    sands    are    diiuiioiu} 
sparks. 
Thai  dazzle  as  they  pass  P 


Ah  I  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 
Their  phnnage  to  his  wiugs  ? 


Edmund  Spenser. 


[A'nwi  The  Kj)i:h(il<tiniuin.] 

TIIK  ItlUDi:   liKAiriFVl.,   J!0/>y 
ASI)  SOUL. 

Now    is    my  love    all  reaily  forth  l<> 

come: 
J^et  all    the   virgins    therefore    well 

await; 
AnA  ye.  fresh  boys,  that  tend  upon 

her  groom, 
Prepare  yoiUMlvcs,  for  lie  is  coming 

straight. 
Set  all   your  things  iu  seemly  good 

array. 
Fit  for  so  joyful  day: 
The  joyfull'st  day  that  ever  sun  did 

see. 
I-'air  sinil    show  forth  thy  favorable 

ray. 
And  lit  thy  lifeful  heat  not  fervent  bi-, 
For  fearof  burning  her  stmshiny  face. 
Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 
<)  fairest  I'hcebus!  fatheroftheMu.se! 
If  ever  1  did  honor  thee  aright. 
Or   sing   the    tinng   that   might    thy 

mind  delight. 
Do   not  thy   servant's   simjile  boon 

refu.se, 
I'.iil  let  thi.s  day,  let  tlils  one  day  bo 

tidnc; 
Ia'J  all  the  rej<t  be  thine. 
Then  1 1  liy  sovereign  jtraiscs  loud  will 

sinu. 
That  all  the  woo<ls  shall  luiswer,  and 

llielr  ucbu  ring. 


I/O  I    where    she    comes    along  with 

portly  pace. 
Like   rii(el)e.   from  her  chamber  of 

I  be  east, 
Arising  forth  to  run  her  nughty  race, 
(  lad  all  iu  white,  that  seems  a  virgin 

best. 
So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would 

ween 
Some  angel  she  had  been. 
Her    long    loo.se  yellow   locks;    like 

goliieii  wire 
Sprinkled    with   pearl,   and  pearling 

(lowei-s  at  ween, 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire; 
And   being  crowned  with  a  garland 

green, 
.•sicm  like  some  maiden  i|Ueen. 
llrr  modest  eyes,  alia^lied  to  behold 
So  many  L;azei-s  as  on  btr  do  stare, 
I'pon  the  lowly  ground  alli\ed  are; 
.N'e  dare  lift   up  her  counlenanw!  too 

bold. 
Hut  blu>-b  to  hear  her  praises  simg  80 

loud, 
.So  far  from  Ixdng  ])roud. 
Nat  bless  do  ye  still  loud   her  ])rai9e8 

sing. 
That  all  the  vs'ooils  may  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring. 

'I'ell  me,  yemerebanls'  daughters,  did 

ye  si'c 
So  fair  a  creature  In  youi-  tovni  \h* 


SPENSER. 


529 


So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as 

she, 
Adorned    with    beauty's    grace    and 

virtue's  store; 
Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires  shin- 
ing briglit, 
Her  forehead  ivory  white, 
Her  cheeks  lik(i  apples  wliich  the  sun 

hath  ruddied, 
Her  lips  like  clu^'rries  cliarming  men 

to  bite, 
Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream 

uncrudded. 
Why   stand   ye   still,   ye    virgins    in 

amaze, 
Upon  lier  so  to  gaze, 
Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to 

sing 
To  wliioh  the  woods  did  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring  ! 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can 

see, 
The    inward    beauty    of    her    lively 

sprite. 
Garnished  with   heaven  by  gifts  of 

higli  degree. 
Much  more  tlien  would  ye  wonder  at 

that  siglit. 
And  stand  astonished   like  to  those 

wldcli  read 
Medusa's  mazeful  head, 
iliere  dwells  sweet  Love,   and  con- 
stant Chastity, 
Jnspotted  Faith,  and  comely  Wom- 

aidiooii, 
Regard  of  Honor,  and  mild  Modesty; 
There  Virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal 

throne, 
And  giv(!tli  laws  alone, 
The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey, 
And    vicld  Ihcir    services   unto   her 

will: 
Ne  thought  of  things  uncomely  ever 

may 
Thereto  approach  to  tempt  her  mind 

to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial 

treasures. 
And  unrevcaled  pleasures, 
'J'lien  would  ye  wonder  and  her  praises 

sing. 
That  all  the  woods  would  answer,  anil 

your  echo  ring. 


[From  The  Faerie  Queene.] 
THE   CAPTIVE  SOUL. 

What  war  so  cruel,  or  M'hat  siege  so 
sore. 

As  that  which  strong  affections  do 
apply 

Against  the  fort  of  Reason  evei-more, 

To  bring  the  sold  into  captivity  ? 

Tlieir  force   is   fiercer  through  infir- 
mity 

Of  the  frail  flesh,  relenting  to  their 
rage ; 

And  exercise  most  bitter  tyranny 

Upon  the  parts  brought  into  their* 
bondage; 

No  wretchedness  is  like  to  sinful  vil- 
lainage. 


[From  The  Faerie  QueeTie.] 
A  VARICE. 

And  greedy  Avarice  by  him  did  rkde, 
Upon  a  camel  laden  all  with  gold; 
Two  iron  coffers  hung  on  either  side, 
With    precious    metal    full    as    they 

might  hold ; 
And  in  his  laj)  a  heap  of  coin  he  told; 
For  of   his  wicked  p'elf  his  God  he 

made, 
And  unto  hell  himself  for  money  sold ; 
Accursed  usiu-y  was  all  his  trade; 
And  right  and  wrong  alike  in  equal 

balance  weighed. 

His  life  was  nigh  unto  death's  door 

y placed, 
And    threadbare    coat    and  cobbled 

shoes  he  ware ; 
Ne  scarce  good  morsel  all  his  life  did 

taste; 
But  lK)th  from  back  and   belly  si  ill 

did  spare, 
To  fill  his  bags,   and  riches  to  com- 
pare; 
Yet  child  nor  kinsman  living  had  he 

none 
To  leave  them  to;  but  thorougli  daily 

care 
To  get,  and  nightly  fear  to  lose,  his 

own. 
He  1«m1  a  wretched  life  unto  himself 

unknown. 


620 


SPKySEH. 


Most  wrelchod  wight,  wlioin  nothing 
niiglit  sntticf. 

Whose  greedy  hi>t  dill  iai'iv  in  great- 
est store. 

Whose  neetl  had  end,  Imt  no  end 
covet  ize, 

Wliose  wealth  was  want,  whose 
plenty  made  him  poor. 

Who  had  enough,  yet  wished  ever- 
more; 

A  vile  disease;  and  eke  in  foot  and 
lianil 

A  grievous  gout  tonnented  liim  full 

-  sore. 

That  well  lie  could  not  touch,  nor  go. 
nor  stand, 

yuch  o!ie  was  Avarice,  the  fuurlh  ol" 
this  fair  hand. 


[Fnnn  I'lie  i'mrie  Qtieene.] 
UXA  ASD   THE  LIOS. 

\oi(UiT  Is  there  miller  heaven's  wide 

Inillowiiess 
Tliai    moves   more  dear   compassion 

of  mind 
Than    lieanty    hroughl   t'  unworthy 

w  reK'liedness 
ThronLrli  envy's  snares,  or  fortune's 

freaks  unkind. 
1,  whether  lately  through  her  hright- 

ness  blind, 
Or  through  allegianci^and  fast  fealty. 
Which    I    (If)   owe   unto    all   womaii- 

kiid. 
Keel  my  he.irt  pierced  with  so  great 

agony. 

\\'ll>  II    SUeh    r    see,   Ili:il   all    forjiilV  I 
could  di.-. 

And  now  It  is  imjiassioned  so  deep. 
For  fairest   Un.i  s  sake,  of  whom   I 

sing, 
Tluit  my  fniil  eyes  these  lines  with 

tears  do  steep, 
To  think  hr)w  she  through  guileful 

handling, 
Thout;)i  true  as  touch,  though  <Iaugh- 

t<  r  of  a  kin;;, 
Tlioui;li  fair  :i.s  ever  living  wight  wa.s 

fair, 


Though  nor  in  word  nor  deed  ill- 
meriting. 

Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  de- 
spair. 

And  her  ilue  loves  derived  to  that 
vile  witclis  share. 

Yet,  she  most  faithful  la<ly  all  this 

while. 
Forsaken,  wofid.  solitary  maid. 
Far  fiom   all  jieople's  prcace.  as  in 

exil.-. 
In    wilderness   and  wasteful    deserts 

strayed, 
'i'o   seek    iier   kuight;    who,    Buhtily 

Itet  rayed 
Throuiili  that   late  vision,  which  tli' 

Knchanter  wrought. 
Had  lier  ali.imloned.     She  uf  nought 

alraid. 
riironi.di  wo(m1s  and  wasteue-ss  wide 

him  daily  sought ; 
Yet  wished  tidings  none  of  him  unto 

her  hroiight. 

t  »ne  day,  ni^h  weary  of  the  irksome 

way. 
From     her    unhasty   Iwast    she    did 

alight. 
And   on   the  gnuss  her  dainty   linihs 

iliil  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's 

sight ; 
From   her    fair    head    hor  fillet  she 

imdight, 
And  laid   her  stolid  aside.     Her  an- 
gel's face, 
As  the  liie.it  eve  of   hcaven,  shin^l 

hrii,'ht, 
And   made  a  sunshine  In  the  shadj 

placi-; 
Did    never  mortal    eye    hchold    such 

hr-aveiily  grace. 

It  fortimed.  out  of  the  thickest  wcKxl 
A  ram]>iic^  lion  rnshed  suddenly. 
Hunting    full    greedy    after    salvage 

hloud ; 
.Soon  as  the  royal  virtrin  he  did  si>y. 
With  L'aping  mouth  at  her  ran  greed- 

">■' 
To  have  at  once  ilcvoured  her  tender 

corse : 


SPENSER. 


52T 


But  to  the  prey  whenas  he  drew 
more  nigh, 

His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  re- 
morse, 

And,  witli  the  sight  amazed,  forgot 
his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kissed  her  weaiy 
feet. 

And  hckod  her  Hly  hands  with  fawn- 
ing tongue. 

As  he  tier  wronged  innocence  did 
weet. 

Oh,  how  can  beauty  master  the  most 
strong, 

And  simple  tnith  subdue  avenging 
wrong! 

AVliose  yielded  pride  and  proud  sub- 
mission. 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had 
marked  long. 

Her  heart  "gan  melt  in  great  compas- 
sion. 

And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure 
affection. 


[From  The  /''nrrh;  Queene.] 
A   lIOai'ITAL. 

Eftsoo.nks  unto  an  holy  hospital. 

That  was  fonby  the  way,  she  did 
him  l)rlng; 

In  which  seven  Dead-men,  that  had 
vowed  all 

Their  life  to  service  of  high  heaven's 
king, 

I)i('i  spciKl  their  days  in  doing  godly 
things: 

Their  gates  to  all  were  open  ever- 
more. 

That  by  the  weary  way  were  travel- 
ling; 

And  one  sat  waiting  ever  them  be- 
fore. 

To  call  in  comers  by,  that  needy  were 
and  poor. 

The  first  of  them,  that  eldest  was  and 
best. 

Of  all  ibc  house  had  charge  and  gov- 
ernment, 


As  guardian  and  steward  of  the 
i"est : 

His  oftice  was  to  give  entertainment 

jVnd  lodging  unto  all  that  came  and 
went; 

Not  unto  such  as  could  him  feast 
again. 

And  double  quite  for  that  he  on  them 
spent; 

But  such,  as  want  of  harbor  did  con- 
strain : 

Those  for  God's  sake  his  duty  was  to 
entertain. 

The  second  was  as  almoner  of  the 

place : 
His    office   was  the  himgry   for   to 

feed, 
And  thirsty  give  to  drink;  a  work  of 

grace ; 
He  feared  not  once  himself  to  be  in 

need, 
Ne  cared  to  hoard  for  those  whom 

he  did  breed : 
The  grace  of  God  he  laid  up  still  hi 

store. 
Which   as  a  stock  he  left  unto  his 

seed; 
He  liad  enough;  what  need  liim  care 

for  more  ? 
And  had  he  less,  yet  some  he  would 

give  to  the  poor. 

The  third    had    of   their  wardrobe 

custody. 
In  which   were   not  rich  tires,   nor 

garments  gay. 
The  phimes  of  pride  and  wings  of 

vanity. 
But  clothes  meet  to  keep  keen  cold 

away, 
And  Tiaked  nature  seemly  to  array; 
With  which  bare  wretched  wights  lie 

daily  clad, 
The  images  of  (Jod  in  earthly  clay; 
And  if  that  no  spare  clothes  to  give 

he  had. 
His  own  coat  he  would  cut,  and  it 

distribute  glad. 

The  fourth  appointed    l)y  his  otlice 

was 
Poor  prisoiu'is  to  relieve  with  gra 

cious  aid. 


B28 


SPENSER. 


And  captives  to  retleem  with  price  of 

brass 
From    Turks    <iiul   Saracens,    which 

them  had  stayed; 
And   thuu;,'li   Ihey    faulty    were,    yet 

well  he  weii;lu'd. 
'I'iiat  (Jod  to  us  f(irj:ivelh  every  hour 
Much  more  than  lliat,  wliy  they  in 

bands  were  laid; 
And   he,   that    harrowed    hell  with 

heavy  store, 
The  faulty  souls  from  thence  hrou^dit 

to  Ids  heavenly  bower. 

The  fifth  had  charge  sick  persons  to 

attend. 
And  comfort  those  in  point  of  dealli 

whieh  lay; 
For  them  most  needeth  comfort  in 

the  end, 
AVhon  sin.  and  hell,  and  death,  do 

most  dismay 
The     feeble    soul    departing    hence 

away. 
All  is  btit  lost,  that  Hvlnt:  we  bestow. 
If  not  well  ended  at  oiu"  dying  day. 
O  man,  have  mind  of  that  last  bitter 

throe; 
For  as  the  tree  drns  fall,  so  lies  it 

ever  low. 


( l<'rimi  Till-  Fill  rie  Qucetie,'] 
I- 1 (■■/•( fit)'  FliOM  an/). 

WllAi  man  is  he  tiiat  boiustsof  llesldv 

mi'Jit 
Ami  vain  assurance  of  mortality'i* 
Whieh.  all  sii  soon  as  it  doth  come  to 

fi^dit 
Against  spiritual  foes,  vields  by  and 

by. 
Or  from  the  field  most  cowardly  dotli 

My: 
\e  lei  t'iie  man  a.Hcribe  It  to  bifl  skill, 


That  thorough  grace  hath  gained  vio 

fory. 
If  any  strength  we  have,  it  is  to  ill; 
But  all  the  Lcood  is  God's,  both  power 

and  ckt  will. 


[  h'rom  T/te  Faerit  Queene.] 

ASGELIV  ('AI:E. 

•V.M)  is  there  care  in  heaven?  and  is 
there  love 

In    heaveidy   spirits  to  these  crea- 
tures base, 

That  may  compassion  of  their  evils 
move  ? 

Then'  is: — else  nuich  more  wretch 
ed  were  tlie  ca.se 

( )f  men  I  ban  beasts.    IJut  oh  I  th'ex- 
ceeding  grace 

Of  Iliiiliest  CJod  that  loves  his  crea- 
tures so. 

Anil  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth 
end  trace. 

That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and 
fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his 
wicked  foe! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  Itowcrs 

leave 
To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor 

want ! 
How  "ft  do  they  with  goMcn  \m\- 

ions  cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  tlyinu  pur- 
suivant, |lant! 
.Against   foul  fiends  to  aid  us  nnli- 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and 

duly  wani, 
.\nd  their  Itrigbt  squadrons  round 

about  us  plant : 
.\nd    all    for   love  and  nothing  for 

rew.inl : 
( )b.  wb>  sliiiuM  Heavenly  God  to  man 

have  ftucb  regard ! 


SPOFFORD. 


629 


Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 

HEREAFTER. 

Love,  when  all  these  years  are  silent,  vanished  quite  and  laid  to  rest. 
When  you  and  I  are  sleeping,  fohh-d  breathless  breast  to  breast, 

When  no  morrow  is  before  us,  and  the  long  grass  tosses  o'er  us, 
And  our  grave  remains  forgotten,  or  by  alien  footsteps  pressed,  — 

Still  that  love  of  ours  will  linger,  that  great  love  enrich  the  earth, 
Sunshine  in  the  heavenly  azure,  breezes  blowing  joyous  miith; 

Fragrance  fanning  off  from  flowers,  melody  of  summer  showers. 
Sparkle  of  the  spicy  wood-fires  round  the  happy  autumn  hearth. 

That's  om'  love.     But  you  and  I,  dear,  —  shall  we  linger  with  it  yet, 
Mingled  in  one  dewdrop,  tangled  in  one  sunbeam's  golden  net, — 
On  the  violet's  purple  bosom,  I  the  sheen  but  you  the  blossom, 
Stream  on  sunset  winds,  and  be  the  haze  with  which  some  hill  is  wet  ? 

Oh,  beloved,  —  if  ascending,  —  when  we  have  endowed  the  world 
With  the  best  bloom  of  our  being,  whither  will  our  way  be  whirled; 

Through  what  vast  and  starry  spaces,  toward  what  awful  holy  places. 
With  a  white  light  on  our  faces,  spirit  over  spirit  furled? 

Only  this  our  yearning  answers,  —  whereso'cr  that  way  defile, 
Not  a  film  shall  part  us  through  the  ajons  of  that  mighty  while. 

In  the  fair  eternal  weather,  even  as  phantoms  still  together, 
Floating,  floating,  one  forever,  in  the  light  of  God's  great  smile  I 


THE  NUN  AND  HARP. 

What  memory  fired  her  pallid  face, 
What  i^assion  stirred  her  blood, 

What  tide  of  sorrow  and  desire 
Poured  its  forgotten  flood 

Upon  a  heart  that  ceased  to  heat, 

Long  since,   with  thought  that  life 
was  sweet 

When  nights  were  rich  with  vernal 
dusk. 
And  the  rose  burst  its  bud  ? 

FTad  not  the  western  giory  then 

Stolen  througli  the  latticed  room. 
Her  fimeral  r;iiineiit  would  have  slieil 

A  more  heai'l-bi-eiikiiv,;  '^looni: 
Had  not  a  diin])]ed  eonveiit-maid 
Hung  in  tile  doorway,  half  afraid. 
And  left  the  melancimly  ]>lace 
Bright  with  her  blnsh  and  bloom  I 


Beside  the  gilded  haq)  she  stood. 
And  through  the  singing  strings 

Woimd  those  wan  hands  of  folded 
]irayer 
In  murmurous  preludings. 

Then,   like  a  voice,  the  harp  rang 
high 

Its  melody,  as  climb  the  sky. 

Melting  against  the  melting  blue, 
Some  bird's  vibrating  wings. 


Ah.  why,  of  all  the  sonffs  that  grow 

Forever  tenderer. 
Chose  she  that  i)assionate  refrain 

Where  lovers  "mid  the  stir 
Of  wassailers  that  round  tliem  pass 
Hide     their     sweet     secret?       Now. 

alas. 
In  hei-  nun's  habit,  coifed  and  veiled, 

What  meant  that  song  to  her! 


530 


BPOFFORD. 


Slowly  thp  westpm  ray  forsook 

Tlu'  statui'  in  its  shriii«'; 
A  sense  of  tears  thrilleil  all  the  air 

Along  the  purpling  line. 
Earth  seemed  a  plaee  of  graves  that 

rang 
To  liollow  footsteps,  wliile  she  sang. 
'•  Drink  to  ine  only  witli  thine  eyes, 

And  1  will  pledge  with  niino!" 


'ihe  snnnner  evening  lin'.;er  lale 
In  many-rivered  iSljickyard  (iate, 
Wh'ii  we,  wlien  all  your  jieople  here 
Ha\e  fled.      But  like  the  atmosphere 
You  still  the  region  shall  surround, 
riie  .spirit  of  the  sacred  ground 
'i'h<)ugli  you   have  risen,  as  luoiuilb 

the  star. 
Into  horizons  vaster  farl 


ouit  XKiaiiJion.' 

()l,l)  neighbor,  for  how  many  a  yi-ar 
The  .-.ame  horizon,  stretching  here. 
Has  held  us  in  its  hap])y  hound 
From  Hiverinouth  to  li>swich  Sound  I 
How  many  a  wave-washe(|  day  we've 

seen 
A  hove  that  low  liorizon  lean. 
And  marked  within  the  Merrimack 
The  self-same  sunset  reddening  hack. 
Or  in  the  I'owow's  siiining  stream. 
That  silent  river  of  a  dream! 

Wln're    Craneneck    o'er    the  woody 

gloom 
Lift.s  her  steep  mil«»  of  ai)pl(!-hloom  : 
Where   .Salisbury    tSands,    in    yellow 

length 
With    the    great    breaker    measures 

strength ; 
Whore  .Vrlichoke  in  shadow  slides, 
The  lily  on  her  itaintixl  tides  — 
There's  naught  in  the  enchanted  view 
That  does  not  seem  u  part  of  you; 
Voiu'  legends  hang  on  every  hill. 
Your  songs  liave  made  it  cUarcr  still. 

Yours  i.s  tlio  rlvor-road;  and  yours 
.\re  all  tlie  miulily  meadow  flooi-s 
Wliere  till-  lou^  Flami.ti.n  levels  lie 
.Mune  htlwiili  the  sea  ;ind  skv. 
Kivsh.M-  in  Kollymill  -hall  bl"W 
The  Mayflowers,  that  you  lovi-d  tin  in 

so; 
Prouder  Deer  T.sland's  ancient  pines 
Toss  to  their  measiui'  in  your  lini-s; 
Anil  jiuridfr  gleam  old  Ai'ph'diiri-, 
Hecause  your  f<»ol  has  Imd  her  shore. 

Still   shall  the   great    Cape    wade    to 

inei-t 

The  sionuH  that  fawn  about  her  feet. 


A  r.riTi.K  hand,  a  fair  soft  hand 
I)imi>letl  and  sweet  to  kiss: 

No  si-uljitor  ever  carved  from  stone 
A  lovelier  hauil  than  this. 

•V  hand  as  idle  and  as  white 

.\s  lilies  DM  their  sii  nis; 
Da/.zliim  with  rosy  finger-tips, 

Dazzling  with  crusted  g<'ms. 

.\iiother  hand,  —  a  fired  old  hand, 
\\  riilen  with  many  lines: 

.\  taiiliful.  weaiy  hand,  wherc«m 
The  pearl  of  great  jirice  shines! 

For  folded,  as  the  wing^d  fly 

Sleeps  in  the  chrysalis, 
\\  ilbin  this  lilll--  palm  I    see 
Thill  loNiliei  baud  than  this! 


.1.    «i.   WntlTIKIl. 


FANTASIA. 

Wi  "ni.  all  alone,  we're  all  alone! 
The   moon   and  .stars  an-  deail   an<l 

gon.': 
I  he  night's  at  dee|>.  the  \\in<l  asleep. 
.\nd  Ihou  and  i  are  all  alone! 

What  care  have  we  though  life  thexo 

l)e  '> 
Tinnult  and  life  are  not  for  me! 
SII- nee  and  sleep  about  us  creep: 
Tunudt  and  life  are  not  for  thee! 

Mow  IhIi'  it  is  since  such  as  this 
Had  topped  the  hekhl   of  breathing 

i)liss! 
And  now  we  keeji  an  iron  sli'ejt,  — 
lu  thai  grave  thou,  and  1  in  this! 


SPOFFORD. 


531 


A  FOUR-O'CLOCK. 

All.  li;ii>[)y  flay,  refuse  to  go! 
lliiiigin  the  heavens  forever  so! 
Forever  in  niiil-afternooii. 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June! 
Pour  out  thy  sunshine  on  the  hill, 
The  piny  wood  with  perfume  fill, 
And  breathe  across  the  singing  sea 
Land-scented  breezes,  that  shall  be 
Sweet  as  the  ganlens  that  they  pass. 
Where  children  tumble  in  the  grass ! 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ! 
And  long  not  for  thy  blushing  rest 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  the  west. 
But  bid  gray  evening  get  her  back 
AVith  all  the  stars  upon  her  track ! 
Forget  the  dark,  forget  the  dew. 
The  mystery  of  the  midnight  blue. 
And    only    spread    thy   wide   warm 
wings  [flings! 

While    Summer     her    enchantment 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go! 

Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so! 

Forever  let  thy  tender  mist 

Lie  hke  dissolving  amethyst 

Deep  in  the  distant  dales,  and  shed 

Thy  mellow  glory  overhead! 

Yet    wilt    thou    wander, — call    the 

thrush. 
Ami  have  the  wilds  and  waters  hush 
To  hear  his  passion-broken  tune, 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June! 


A  .syoivDiiop. 

Only  a  tender  little  thing, 
So  velvet  soft  and  white  it  is; 

liut  March  himself  is  not  so  strong. 
With  all  the  great  gales  that  are  his. 

In  vain  his  whistling  storms  he  calls, 
In  vain  the  cohorts  of  his  power 

Kid(!    down     tlu;     sky    on     mighty 
blasts  — 
He  cannot  crush  the  little  Ilower. 

Its  white   spear  parts   the   sod.   the 
snows 
Than  that  white  spear  less  snowy 
are, 


The  rains  roll  off  its  crest  like  spray, 
It  lifts  again  its  spotless  star. 

Blow,  blow,  dark  March!    To  meet 
you  here. 
Thrust   upward    from  the  central 
gloom. 
The  stellar  force  of  the  old  earth 
Pulses  to  life  in  this  slight  bloom. 


Oil,  glad  am  I  that  1  was  born! 
For  who  is  sad  wiien  llaniing  morn 
Bursts    forlh,    or  when    the   mighty 

night 
Carries    the     soul    from     heiolit     to 

height ! 

To  me.  as  to  the  child  tiiat  sings, 
The  bird  that  claps  his  rain-washed 

wings,  I  ilower, 

The  breeze  that  curls  the  sun-ti])ped 
Comes  some  new  joy  with  each  new 

hour. 

.Joy  in  the  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Joy  in  the  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
Joy  in  that  potency  of  love 
In  which  I  live  and  breathe  and  move! 

Joy  even  in  the  shapeless  thought 
That,  some  day,  when  all  tusks  are 

wrought, 
I  shall  explore  that  vasty  deep 
Beyond  the  frozen  gates  of  sleep. 

For  joy  attunes  all  beating  things. 
With  me  each  rhythmic  atom  sings. 
From  glow  till  gloom,  from  mirk  till 

morn; 
Oh,  glail  am  I  that  I  was  born! 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 

Wn.\T   love  do  I  bring  you'.'     T:.i 
earth. 
Full  of  love,  were  far  lighter: 
The  great  hollow  sky,  full  of  love. 
Something  slighter. 

Earth  full  and  heaven  full  were  less 

'J'lum  the  full  measure  given; 
Nay,  say  a  heart  full.  —  th<'  heart 
Holds  earth  and  heaven  ! 


582 


sriiAnrE. 


Charles  Sprague. 


Of)/-:   O.V  AHT. 

When. from  tlu'.sacivd.iiank'iiilrivrii, 
Man  tied  iH-fcir  his  Maki-i's  wialh. 
An  angfl  l»;fl  her  place  in  heavi-n. 
And  LTDSsed  the  wanderer's  sunless 
path, 
'Twas  Art!  sweet  Art!  now  radiaiuf 
broke 
Where  her  light  foot  Hew  o'er  the 
ground, 
And    thus,   with    seraph    voice    she 
spoke  — 
••  The   ("nrse   a   blessing    shall   be 
foiuid." 

She   led    him    through  the    trackless 
wild. 
Where    noonliile    sunbeam    never 
blazed; 
The     thistle     shrunk,    the    harvest 
smiled ; 
And  Nature  gladdened  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's    thousand    tribes    of    living 
things, 
At  Art's   command,    to    him    arc 
given ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs. 
And   jioint  their  spires  of  faith  to 
Leaven. 

He  rends  the  oak  —  and  bids  it  ride. 
To  guard    the    ^sh<>res    its    iM^anty 
graced ; 
He   smites   the    rock  —  upheaved    in 
pride. 
See  lowers  of  strength,  and  domes 
of  taste. 
Karth's    teeming  eaves  their  wealth 
reveal. 
Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
H'  liidsihe  mortal  poison  heal. 
And     leaps    triumphant    o'er    the 
grave. 

lb-  plucks  the  pearls  that    stud    the 
deep. 

Admiring  Heauty's  lap  to  till; 
He    briaks    ilic    stnbl>(>rn    marble's 

slcp. 

And  1 tvs|ii,,,wu  Creator's  skill. 


With  thoughts  that  swell  his  glowing 
sold. 
He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  ]>age, 
And,   proudly  scorning  Time's  con- 
trol. 
Commerces  with  an  imborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name, 
And    treails  the   chami>ers  of   the 
sky; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the 
tiame 
That  (luivers  round  the  Throne  ou 
high. 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime, 

lie  moves  in  greatness  and  ingrace; 
His  power,  subduing  .space  and  time, 
Links  realm  to  realm  and  race  to 
race. 


77/A'  fn\(!/:/>  wonsnifPF.Ks. 

G.VY,  guiltless  pair, 
What    seek    ye    from    the   fields  of 

heaven  ? 
Ve  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  liore. 
WlnTc  mortals  to  their  .Maker  bend  ? 

(  an  your  pure  sjiirits  tear 
The  (iod  ye  never  could  otTend  ? 

Ye  nevi'r  knew 
The   crimes   for   which   we  come  to 

Wl'Cp. 

I'enance  is  not  for  you. 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  uppir  deep. 

To  you,  'ti.»  gi\fn 
To   wake   sweet     Nature's   niitjiugh". 
lays; 
Hencaib  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  s|>rejid  each  wing. 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

.\nd  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In   yon  blue  dome  not  reared   with 
handii. 


SPEAOUE. 


533 


Or,  if  ye  stay, 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour. 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

AV)ove  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  hut  fly, 
I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud. 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  Heaven  indeed 

Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to 

soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed. 

And  Nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother. 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each   chair  is  filled —  we're  all   at 

home ; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come; 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  heartli  we're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot; 
For  once  be  everj-  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  iVffection  rule  the  hour; 

We're  all  —  all  here. 

We're  not  all  here! 
Some  are  away  —  the  dead  ones  dear, 
W'iio  thronged  with  us  this  ancient 

hearth. 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  witli  a  stern,  reh^ntless  hand. 
Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band; 
Some  like  a  night-tlash  passed  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day ; 
The     quiet     graveyard  —  some    lie 

there  — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share  — 

We're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here! 
Even  they  —  the  dead  — though  dead, 

so  dear. 
Fond  Memory,  to  hev  duty  true. 
Brings    back   their    faded   forms   to 

view. 


How  life-like,   through  the  mist  of 
years. 

Each  well-remembered  face  a])pears 

We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past; 

From  each  to   each  kind   looks  are 
cast ; 

We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  be- 
hold. 

They're   round  us  as  they  were  oi 
old  — 
We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here! 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother, 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 

We're  all  —  all  here  ! 


TO  MY  CIGAR. 

Yes,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 

In  learned  doctors'  spite; 
Thy  clouds  all  other  clouds  dispel, 

And  lap  me  in  delight. 

By  thee,  they  cry,  with  phizzes  long, 
My  years  are  sooner  passed; 

Well,  take  my  answer,  right  or  wrong, 
They're  sweeter  while  they  last. 

And  oft,  mild  friend,  to  me  thou  art. 

A  monitor,  though  still; 
Thou  speak' st  a  lesson  to  my  heart 

Beyond  the  preacher's  skill. 

Thou'rt  like  the  man  of  worth,  win 
gives 

To  goodness  every  day. 
The  odor  of  whose  virtue  lives 

■Wlien  he  has  passed  away. 

When,  in  the  lonely  evening  hour. 

Attended  but  l)y  thee. 
O'er  history's  varied  page  I  pore, 

Man's  fate  in  thine  I  see. 


r)a4 


BPRAGUE. 


Oft  as  thy  simwy  coliiinii  fjrows, 
'I'licii  ln'caks  ami  falls  away. 

I  iracf  liciw  uiiglity  naliiis  thus  rose, 
Thus  lumbliHl  to  decay. 

Awhih'  hk(>  tlico  tii»>  licro  burns. 
Ami  smokes  anil  funics  aroiuul, 

And  tln-n.  like  thee,  lo  ashes  turns. 
And  nuntjles  with  the  ground. 

i.iff's  hut  a  leaf  adroitly  rolled. 
And  time's  the  waslint;  hrtalh, 

That  late  or  early,  wi-  behold, 
(iives  all  to  du.sty  death. 

Fmm   hi^iigar's  frieze   to   monarch's 
robe, 
<  )iie  common  doom  is  passed ; 
Swi'L't  Nature's  works,   the  swelling 
globe. 
Must  all  bum  out  at  last. 

And   what   is  he  who  smokes  thee 
now  ?  — 

A  little  moving  heap. 
That  soon  like  tliee  to  fate  must  how, 

With  thee  in  dust  must  sleep. 

liui  though  thy  ashes  downward  go, 
Thy  essence  rolls  on  high; 

Thus,  when  my  body  must  lie  low. 
My  soul  shall  deave  the  sky. 


fni'M  rut:  -out:  o.v  niiAKEsrEAiiE.- 

\\  iio  now  shall  grace  tiie  glow- 
ing throne, 
WhiTc,  all  inirivalli'd,  all  alone. 
Hold  Sliakcs|)farc  sal,  and   looked 

cn-ation  through, 
The     minstii-1      monanh    of     (he 
worlds  li(^  drew'.' 

Thai   throne  is  cold  —  that   lyre  in 

death  unslrung 
( )n  whose  proud  note  delighleil  ^Von- 

der  hung. 
Yit    old    Oblivion,   as   in    wrath  he 

8weep.s, 
One  spot  shall  sjiare — the  grave  where 

.Shakespeare  sleeps. 
KiiliTH  and   rided  in  common  gloom 

may  lie. 
But    Nature's    laiin-ate    bards   shall 

never  die. 


Art's  chiselled  bo;isl  and  Glory's  tro 

j)hied  shore 
Must  live  in  numbers,  or  can  live  no 

more. 
While  sculpiured  .love  some  nameless 

waste  may  claim.  jfame: 

.Still  rolls  the  Olympic  car  in  Pindar's 
Troy's  iloul)lful  walls  in  ashes  passed 

away. 
Yet  frown  on   Greece    in    Homer's 

deathless  lay; 
Home,  slowly   sinking  in   her  i-rum- 

blinu  fanes. 
Stands  all    immortal    in    her  Maro's 

strains; 
.So,  too.  yon  giant  emi)ressof  the  Isles, 
On  whose  broad  sway  the  sun  forever 

smiles. 
To   Time's   unsjiaring   rage  one  day 

must   bend. 
And  all   bi'r  triumi>lis  in  her  Shake- 
speare end  I 

O  thou!  to  whose  creative  jiower 
We  dedicate  the  festal  hour. 
While    (irace    and    (Joodness  round 

the  altar  stand. 
Learning's  anoinfe(l  train,  and  lieau- 

ty's  rose-lipped  Itand  -- 
Kcalms  yet   iniborn,  in  accents  now 

unknown. 
Thy  song  shall  learn,  and  l>less  it  for 

their  own.  | roves, 

Di'e))  in   the  West    as    Indejiendence 
Mis  banners  jdanting  round  the  land 

he  loves. 
Where  Nature  sleejis   in  PMen's  in- 
fant gr.ice. 
In   Time's   fidl    bom-  shall  spring  a 

glorious  racr'. 
Thy  name,  tb     verse,  thy   language, 

sb.ill  ihi'y  bear. 
And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple 

there. 
<  )iir  l;om;»n-hi'arte<|  fathers  broke 
Thy  parent  emi>ire's  galling  yoke; 
Kul  thou,  barmoidons  m.ister  of  the 

mind. 
.\round    their   sons  a   gentler  chain 

shall  liind; 
Onei!    more    In    thee    shall    Albion's 

sceptre  wave. 
.\nd    what     her   nionarcli    )ost.    her 

monarch -bard  shall  save. 


STEDMAN. 


535 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


THE   TEST. 

Seven  women  loved  him.      When 
the  wrinkled  pall 
Enwrapt  him  from  their  unfulfilled 
desire 

(Death,  palo,  triumphant  rival,  con- 
quering all,) 

They  came,  for  that  last  look,  around 

his  pyre. 
One  streVi^ed  white  roses,  on  whose 

leaves  were  hung 
Her  tears,  like  dew;  and  in  discreet 

attire 

Warhled  her  tuneful   sorrow.     Next 

among 
The    group,    a    fair-haired    virgin 

moved  serenely, 
Whose  saintly  heart  no  vain  repin- 

ings  wrung. 

Reached  the  calm  dust,  and  there, 
composed  and  queenly. 
Gazed,  but  the  missal  trembled  in 
her  hand : 

"That's  with  the  past."  she  said, 
"  nor  may  1  mt-aidy 

Give  way  to  tears!"  and  passed  into 
the  land. 
T'le  third  hung  feebly  on  the  por- 
tals moaning. 

With    whitt'nod   lips,   and   feet  that 
stood  in  sand. 

So  weak  they  seemed,  —  and  all  her 

passion  owning. 
The     fom-th,    a    ripe,      luxurious 

initiilen,  came. 
Half  for  such   homage  to   the   dead 

atoning 

By  smiles  on  one  who  f:nui('<l  ;i  later 

flame 
In  her  slight  soul,  her  fickle  steps 

attcn  ii"l. 
The  fifth  and  sixth  were  sisters;  at 

the  •same 


Wild  moment  both  above  the  image 

bendeil, 
And  with  immortal  hatred  each  on 

each. 
Glared,  and  therewith  her  exultation 

blended. 

To  know  the  dead  had  'scaped  the 

other's  reach! 
Meanwhile,  through  all  the  words 

of  anguish  spoken, 
One  lowly  form  had  given  no  sound 

of  speech. 

Through  all  the  signs  of  woe,  no  sign 

nor  token : 
But  when  they  came  to  bear  him 

to  his  rest. 
They  found  her  beauty  paled,  —  her 

heart  was  broken : 

And   in   the   Silent   Land  his  shade 

confest 
That  she,  of  all  the  seven,  loved  him 

best. 


LAURA,  MY  DARLING. 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  roses  have 

blushed 
At   the    kiss  of   the  dew,  and  our 

chamber  is  hushed ; 
Our  munnuring  babe  to  your  bosom 

has  clung. 
And  hears  in  his  slumber  the  song 

that  you  sung; 
I  watch  you  asleep  with  your  arms 

round  him  thrown. 
Tour  links  of  dark  tresses  woimd  in 

with  his  own. 
And  the  wife  is  as  dear  as  the  gontle 

young  bride 
Of  the  hour  when  you  first,  darling, 

came  to  my  side. 

Laura,  my  darling,  our  sail  down,t*« 
stream  -  "7 

Of  Youth's  sumiiiers  and  winters 
has  been  like  a  dream; 


•vSfi 


S  TED  MAN. 


Years  have  hut  rouiult'd  yoiir  wom- 
anly ijrace. 

And  addt'il  tlicir  spell  to  the  light  of 
your  face; 

Your  soul  is  the  same  as  though  part 
were  not  given 

To  the  two,  like  yourself,  sent  to  bless 
me  from  heaven,  — 

Dear  lives.  s|)rinj,'ing  forth  from  the 
life  of  my  life. 

To  make  you  more  near,  darling, 
mother,  and  wife! 

Laura,  my  darling,  there's  hazel-eyod 

Fre.l. 
Asleep  in  his  own  tiny  col  by  the  bed. 
And  little  King  Artlim-.  whose  curls 

have  the  art 
Of   winding  their   tendrils  so  close 

round  my  heart; 
Yet    fairer   than   either,  and   dearer 

than  hoili. 
Is  the  true  one  who  gave  me  in  girl- 

hooil  her  trotii: 
For  we,  wiien  we  mated  fur  evil  and 

good, — 
What  were  we.  darling,  but  babes  in 

the  wood  ? 

Laina.  my  darling,  the  years  which 

have  flown 
Brought  few  of  the  prizes  I  pledged 

to  my  own. 
I  said  that  no  sorrow  should  roughen 

her  way. 
Ifer  life  should  be  cloudless,  a  long 

sMiiiiner's  day. 
Shadow  and   sunshine,  thistles  and 

(lowers. 

Which  of  the  tw(),  rlarling,  most  have 

been  ours  ? 
Yet   lo-niglii.  by  the  smile   on   your 

lijis.   I  c;ill  see 
You   me  dre;iMdng   of   me,    d.irling, 

dri'iiiniiiL.'  of  me. 

I>aura,  my  <larling,  the  stars  that  wo 
knew 

In  our  youlii.  are  still  sbiniuK  as  ten- 
der and  true; 

'III.-  midnight  is  soimding  its  shim- 

lii-roils  liell. 
And  f  intii.-  Id  the  one  who  ba»  loved 
me  so  well. 


Wake,  darling,  wake,  for  my  vigil  is 

done : 
What  shall  dissever  our  lives  which 

are  one  ? 
Say,  while  the  rose  listens  under  her 

breath. 
"Naught  until  death,  darling,  naught 

imiji  death!" 


THE    UXDISIOVEHED   COUNTRY. 

('of  I.I »  we  but  know 

The  laud   that  ends  our  dark,  un- 
certain travel. 
Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and 
meadows  low,  — 
Ah,    if    beyond    the   spirit's   inmost 
cavil. 
Aught    of   that  country   could   we 
surely  know, 

Who  would  not  go  ? 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined 
chorus. 
Or  catch,    Ix'times,    with    wakefid 
eyes  and  clear. 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before 
us, — 
Witli  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see 
and  hear. 

Ah,  who  woidd  fear  ? 

Were  we  (juite  sure 
To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left 
us  lonely. 
Or  there,  by  .some  celestial  stream 
as  pure. 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit 
only  — 
This   weary  mortal   coil,   were  wo 
<|nite  sttre, 

Who  woidd  endure? 


Tirr    THY  ST. 

.Si.KKlMNn,  I  dreanii'd  thai  thou  wast 

mine. 
In  Home  iimbrosial  lover's  shrine. 
My  lips  au'ahist  thy  lips  were  pressed, 
And  all  our  p;i«<><ion  was  confessed; 
So  near  and  dear  my  ilarling  seeinod, 
I  knew  not  ihat  1  only  dreamed. 


BTKDMAN. 


b^Ti 


Waking  this  mid  and  moonlit  night, 
1  clasp  thee  close  by  lover's  right. 
Thou  fearest  not  my  wami  embrace, 
And  yet,  so  like  the  dream  thy  face 
And  kisses,  I  but  half  partake 
The  joy,  and  know  not  if  I  wake. 


TOO  LATE. 

Crouch  no  more  by  the  ivied  walls, 
Weep  no  longer  over  hei-  grave. 
Strew  no  flowers  when  evening  falls; 
Idly  you  lost  what  angels  gave ! 

Sunbeams  cover  that  silent  mound 
With  a  warmer  hue  than  your  roses 

red ; 
To-morrow's    rain    will    bedew    the 

ground 
Witli  a  i)urer  stream  than  the  tears 

you  shed. 

But  neither  the  sweets  of  the  scat- 
tered flowers. 

Nor  the  morning  sunlight's  soft  com- 
mand. 

Nor  all  the  songs  of  the  summer 
showers. 

Can  charm  her  back  from  that  dis- 
tant land. 

Tenderest  vows  are  ever  too  late ! 
She,  who  has  gone,  can  only  know 
The  cruel  sorrow  that  was  her  fate, 
And  the  words  that  were  a   mortal 
woe. 

Earth  to  earth,  and  a  vain  despair; 
For  the  gentle  spirit  has  flow  n  away. 
And  you  can  never  her  wrongs  re])air. 
Till  ye  meet  again  at  the  judgment 
Day. 


THE  DOOIiSTEP. 

The  conference-meeting  through  at 
last. 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 
To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like    snow-birds     willing     to    be 
mated. 


Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 
By  level  musket-flashes  litten. 

Than  1,  who  stepped  before  them  al 
Who    longed    to    see    me  get  the 
mitten. 

But  no,   slie  blushed    and  took  my 
arm! 
We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  high- 
way. 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Fann 
Along  a  kind  of  lovers'  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 
'Twas    nothing    worth   a  song  or 
story ; 
Yet  that  riule  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a 
glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 
The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were 
gleaming : 
By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet. 
Her  face  with   youth   and   health 
were  beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  — 
O  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould 
it!  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 
'Twas  love  and  fear  and  triumph 
blended. 
At  last  we  reached    the  foot-worn 
stone 
^Yhere  thatdelicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home; 
Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fin- 
gered. 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come. 
Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lin- 
gered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  head, 
And   with  a  "Thank  you,  Ned," 
dissembled. 
But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 
With    what  a  daring  wish  1  trem- 
bled. 


938 


STKDMAN. 


A  cloud  passed  l:indly  ovehpfld, 
Tlie     moon      was  slyly    peeping 
tlirotiiih  it. 
Yet  hill  it^  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"Come,  now  or  never!  do   it!  ilo 
it!" 

My  lips  till  then  h  >■]  cnly  known 
The  kiss  of  inotli'  r  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  Uj^on  her  own 
Sweet,    rosy,    ilarling    muuth. — I 
kissed  her! 

Perhaps  'twas  hoyish  love,  yet  still, 

(>  listless  woman,  weary  lover! 
To  feel  onee  more  that  fresh,  wild 
thrill 
I'd  give  — but  who  can  live  youth 
over  ? 


rnr  nixcoyrnRn. 

I  HAVK  a  litlli-  kinsman 

Whose  earthly   summers   are    but 

three. 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
(Ircater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
'i'lian  all  their  peers  tocieiher! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer. 
Anil,  farbryond  the  tether 
Of  tliem  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
lias  sailed  where  the  noisiless  sui-ges 
roll. 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  wingi^d  jdlot  steered  his  bark 
Through  till'  iiortals  of  the  dark. 
Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree. 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  yoinv,'  hour, 
Came  on«'  who  bore  a  flower. 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 

With  this  lommand : 
'  llruci'forlb  thou  art  a  lover! 
riiou  nuiit  make  a  voya'.;e  far, 
iail  bfuratb  llii'  i-vrniiiL:  sUir, 
And  a  wondrous  land  tlisfov<-r." 
—  \\  ilb  bis  swert  smile  inuoeiMit 

<  >ur  little  kinsman  wi-ut. 

.Sju'r  ibai  lime  no  word 

From  Ibr  absent  has  Imtu  beard. 

Wb-.-an  I.  11 
IIow  be  lares,  or  an.swer  well 


Wliat  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound* 
Would  that  be  might  re    iml 
Then  sliould  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  jiart. 
Hush!   does  not  the   baby  this  way 
bring. 
To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  o'fifering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ■.' 

Ah,  no!  not  so! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 
\\\\{  be  comes  not  back. 
And  yet  1  dare  avei- 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 
Of  (limes  biseldei-s  do  not  know. 
He  lias  more  learning  than  ajipears 
On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thou- 
sand ycaiN. 
More  than  in  the  proves  is  taught. 
Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought; 
He  knows,  perchance,  bow  spirits 

fare,  — 
What  sbai>es  the  angels  wear. 
What  is  Iheir  guise  and  s|H'ech 
In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach — 
And  bis  eyes  l)i'hold 
Things  that  shall  never,  never  be  to 
mortal  hearers  told. 


SKEKlXa    Till-:   MAYFLDW'EIi. 

TiiK  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year 
round  — 

'Tis  the  first  robin  of  the  spring! 
The  song  of  the  full  orchard  elmir 

Is  not  .so  tine  a  thine. 

(Jlad  sights  are  common:  Nainre 
draws  [year. 

Hi  r  random  i>iitiucs  thruugli  the 
I'.ut  ofi  ber  uuisie  bids  us  long 

Ivemeinber  those  most  dear. 

To  me.  when  in  the  sudden  spring 
I  iiear  the  earliest  roliin's  lay. 

With  the  first  trill  Ibt-re  conuukagain 
<  >ue  pii'ture  of  the  May. 

Tlie  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 
A    monifut.    though     my    eyeUili 
clos*!, 


8TEDMAN. 


08S 


Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  liil) 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 

I  see  the  village  (hyad  kneel, 
Trailing  her  .slender  fingers  througli 

The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 
Their  pink,  pale  Uowers  to  view. 

Once  more  1  dare  to  stoop  beside 
The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice, 

Aiid  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 
And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 
With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 

And   half   by  chance  they  meet  her 
own. 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 

Till,  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won, — 
Like  her,   so    pure,   so    sweet,  so 
shy,— 

Upon  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  1  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  bieeze  through  hem- 
lock-trees. 
The   fields  are  edged   with   green 
below;  [love 

And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and 
We  know  or  care  to  know ! 

Hark!  from  the  moss-clung  apple- 
bough,  [broke 

Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there 
That  gurgling  music  of  the  May,  — 

'Twas  the  first  robin  spoke! 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not,  — 
For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 

What  toil  and  time  should  come  to 
pass. 
And  what  delight  be  missed ; 

Nor  thought  thercaftor,  year  by  year, 
Hearing  that  frcsji  yet  olden  song. 

To  yearn  for  unretuiniiig  joys 
That  with  its  iov  belong. 


ALL   IX  A    LIFETIME. 

■Pjiou   shall   have   sun    and   shower 

iVoni  heaven  above, 
i'liou  fliall   have   flower  and   thoni 

from  earth  below, 


Thine  shall  be  foe  to  hate  and  friend 
to  love. 
Pleasures  that  others  gain,  the  iils 
they  know,  — 

And  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Hast   thou  a  golden    day.    a  stailit 
night. 
Mirth,  and  music,  and  love  without 
alloy  ? 
I^icave   no  drop   inidrunken    of    thy 
delight: 
Sorrow  and  shadow  follow  on  thy 
joy. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

\Miatif  the  battle  end  and  thou  hast 
lost  ? 
Others  have  lost  the  battles  thou 
hast  won : 
Haste  thee,   bind  thy  wounds,   nor 
count  the  cost; 
Over    the    field    will  rise  to-mor- 
row's Sim. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Laugh   at   the   braggart    sneer,    the 
open  scorn,  — 
'Ware  of  the  secret  stab,  the  slan- 
derous lie: 
For  seventy   years  of   turmoil   thou 
wast  born. 
Bitter  and  sweet  are  thine  till  these 
go  by. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Reckon  thy  voyage  well,  and  spread 
the  sail,  — 
Wind  and  calm  and  current  shall 
war})  thy  way; 
Compass   shall  set    thee    false,    and 
chart  shall  fail ; 
Ever  the  waves  shall  use  thee  for 
their  play. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Thousands    of    years     agone     were 
chance  and  change. 
Thousands  of  ages   hence  the  same 
shall  be; 
Xaiight  of  thy  joy  and  grief  is  new  or 
strange: 
Gather  fi.paee   the  good  that    falls 
to  thee! 

"Tis  all  in  a  lifetime! 


540 


STODDARD. 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF    VOL' TIL 

Thkki:  are  piiiis  for  all  our  losses. 
Then"  ari^  Ualms  for  all  our  i)aiu: 
But  when  youth,  the  dreaui.  departs, 
It  takes  soinelhin.i,'  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  <'omes  a^ain. 

We  are  stron-^er.  and  are  heller, 

I'nder  manhoods  sterner  reij^n: 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youih.  with  tlyiui,'  feet, 
And  will  never  eome  aj^ain. 

rfomethini,'  heautifiil  is  vanislu-d, 

And  w<'  siLjli  for  it  in  vain: 
We  hehold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 
But  it  nt'ver  conies  aj^ain. 


AS   oil)   HOStt    KKVEHSKI). 

'■  TnKKK  are  trains  for  all  our  losses."' 

So  1  said  when  I  was  younj;. 
If  i  san;..'  thai  sonjj  aijain, 
'Twould  not  he  with  that  refrain, 
Whieh  hut  suits  an  idle  ton},Mie. 

Youth  has  gone,  and  hope  gone  with 
it, 

(lone  the  strong  desire  for  fame. 
Laurels  are  not  for  the  old. 
Take  them,  la<ls.     (Jive  .Senex  gold. 

What's  an  everkisting  name  ? 

Wlr.'U  my  life  was  in  its  summer 

One  fair  woman  liked  my  looks: 
Now  lliat  Time  has  driven  his  plough 
In  d«'ei>  furrows  on  my  hrow, 
I'm  no  more  In  her  good  hooks. 

"  There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses?" 

firave  iM'siile  tin-  wintry  sea. 
Where  my  child  is,  jind  my  heart, 
For  they  wouM  not  livi-  a|iarl. 
What  has  Imvu  your  gain  tt)  me  ? 

Mo,  the  words  I  Hang  were  idi»', 

,\iid  will  I'ver  so  remain: 
Death,  ami  age,  and  vanished  youth. 
All  ilechire  ihl-*  hitter  truth. 

•*  There's  a  Iosh  for  every  gain '.  " 


AT  LAST. 

When  lirst  the  hrideand  hridegroom 
wed, 
They  love  their  single  selves  th*» 
"best ; 
A  sword  is  in  the  marriag<'-hed. 
Their  separate    slinnhers  are  not 
rest : 
They  (piarrel.  aiel  make  up  airain. 
They  give  and  suiur  worlils  of  pain, 
r.oth  right  and  wrong, 
They  siruigle  long.  [old, 

Till   sonie  good   day.  when  they  are 
.Some  dark  day,  when   the  Iwlls  are 

tolled, 

\)iiiil\\  having  taken  their  hesl  of  life. 

They  lose  themselves,  and  liiwl  earli 

other;  hvifi'. 

They  know   that  they  arc  husband, 

For,    weeping,    they    are    father, 

mother! 


77//;  Tim  nnrnFS. 

I  SAW  two  juaids  at  the  kirk. 
Ami  both  were  fair  and  sweet: 

One  in  her  weddimc-rol)C, 

And  one  in  her  winding-sheet. 

The  choristers  sang  the  hyinn, 
The  sacred  rites  were  read, 

And  one  for  life  to  life. 

And  one  to  deatli  was  wed. 

They  were  l»orne  to  their  hrldal-beds, 

In  loveliness  and  bloom; 
One  in  a  merry  castle. 

And  one  iu  a  soienui  tcjinb. 

<  >ne  on  tlie  morrow  woke 
In  a  worM  of  sin  and  pain; 

Kut  the  other  w:is  ha|>pier  far, 
And  never  awoke  again. 


A  III:  Ml  AM   LINCOLN. 

I'lIlM    man    whose    Ijomely   faci'    y<»U 

look  U]>on, 
Wius  one  of  uai  lire's  ma'-ierful.  gre.U 

men : 


STODDARD. 


541 


Born  with  strong  arms,  thatunfouglit 

battles  won; 
Direct  of  speech,  and  cunning  with 

the  pen. 
Chosen  for  large  designs,  he  had  the 

art 
Of  winning  with  his  humor,  and  he 

went 
Straight  to  his  mark,  which  was  the 

human  heart; 
Wise,  too,   for  what  he   could  not 

break  he  bent. 
Upon  his  back  a  more  than  Atlas- 
load, 
The  burden  of  the  Commonwealth, 

was  laid; 
He  stooped,  and  rose  up  to  it,  though 

the  road 
Shot    suddenly    downwards,    not    a 

whit  dismayed. 
Hold,  warriors,  coimciliors,  kings! 

All  now  give  place 
To  this    dear    benefactor   of    the 

race. 


And  the  blasted  limb  of  the  churcb 

yard  yow,— 
It  shakes  like  a  ghostly  hand. 

The  dead  are  engulfed  beneath  it, 
Sunk  in  the  grassy  waves: 

But  \\'e  have  more  dead  in  our  hearts 
to-day 
Than  earth  in  all  her  graves ! 


HOW  ARE  S  ONG  S  BEG  OTA  ND  BRED. 

ilow  are  songs  begot  and  bred  ? 
How  do  golden  measures  flow  ? 
From  the  heart,  or  from  the  head, 
Happy  poet,  let  me  know. 

Tell  me  first  how  folded  flowers 
Bud  and  bloom  in  vernal  bowers; 
How  the  south  wind  shapes  its  tune, 
The  harper,  he,  of  Jime. 

None  may  answer,  none  may  know, 
Winds  and  flower's  come  and  go. 
And  tli(^  selfsame  canons  bind 
Nature  and  the  poet's  mind. 


RATTLE    THE    WIS  DOW. 

Rattle  *he  window,  winds, 

Rain,  drip  on  the  panes; 
There    are    tears  and   sighs   in   our 
heaits  and  eys. 

And  a  weary  weight  on  our  bi  ains. 

The  gray  sea  heaves  and  heaves. 
Oil  the  dreary  flats  of  sand; 


SONGS    LW.SCXG. 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small. 
Say  that  he  will  sing  a  song; 

For  song  cometh,  if  at  all. 
Not  because  we  woo  it  long, 

But  because  it  suits  its  will, 

Tired  at  last  of  being  still. 

Every  song  that  has  been  sung 
Was  before  it  took  a  voice. 

Waiting  since  the  \xorlil  was  young 
For  the  poet  of  its  choice. 

Oh,  if  any  waiting  be. 

May  they  conte  to-day  to  mel 

I  am  ready  to  repeat 
Whatsoever  they  impart; 

Sorrows  sent  by  thom  are  sweet. 

They  know  how  to  heal  the  heart 
I  Ay,  and  in  the  lightest  strain 

Something  serious  doth  remain. 

What  are  my  white  hairs,  forsooth, 
And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ? 

I  have  still  the  soul  of  youth, 
Try  me,  ni- riy  ^fiises,  now. 

I  can  still  wiili  numbers  fleet 

Fill  the  world  with  dancing  feet. 

No,  I  am  no  longer  young. 
Old  am  I  this  many  a  year; 

But  my  songs  will  yet  be  sung, 
Thoii!j;]i  I  shall  not  live  to  hear. 

O  my  son  that  is  to  be. 

Sing  mv  song^,  and  think  of  me! 


wiucy  THE  nncM   oi'  sfCKXEsa 

liEAIS. 

Wiii:n"  the  di  urn  of  sickness  beats 
The  cliange  o'  the  watch,  and  wo 
ait:  old, 

Farewell,  yoiilh,  and  all  i(s  sweets. 
Fires  gone  out  that  leave  us  cold! 


542 


sToDinnn. 


II;iirs  are  wliito  thai  oiui-  wi-n- black, 
Eafli  of  fati'  tlic  iiiessat;^  sailli; 

And  the  hcudiiig  of  the  buck 
SaUilatiuu  is  to  death. 


r.lfX  AM)   PLKASUnE. 

Tain  and  pleasure  both  decay, 
Wealtli  and  jioverty  depart; 

VVisdoui  niakes  a  longer  stay, 
Tlien  lore,  be  thou  wise,  my  heart. 

L;md  remains  not,  nor  do  they 
Who  the  lands  to-day  control. 

Kini,'s  and  priiiecs  pass  away. 
Therefore,  bo  thou  fixed,  my  soid. 

If  by  hatred,  love,  or  pride 
'riiou  art  shaken,  thou  art  wrong; 

Only  oiii'  lliini;  will  abide. 
Only  jiDodiiis^  can  Ihj  strong. 


orr  OF  THE  dkeps  or  heaves. 

f)l  r  of  the  dccjis  of  heaven 
A  i)ird  has  flown  l<)  my  door. 

As  twice  in  the  ripening  summers 
Its  mates  have  Mown  before. 

Why  it  has  flown  to  my  dwelling 

Nor  it  nor  I  may  know; 
And  only  the  silent  angels 

("an  tell  when  it  shall  go. 

That  if  will  not  straightway  vanish, 
Hut  fold  its  wings  with  me. 

And  siti','  in  (he  i^reenest  Ijranrhes 
Till  the  a.\e  is  laid  to  Ww  tree. 

Is  the  prayer  of  mv  love  and  terror; 

For  uiy  -oul  is  >oie  di-^tresl, 
I^si  I  \'.al<e  sciMU' ilreadful  morning, 

And  lind  but  its  empty  n<st! 


»•/•   s\r  IIY   THE   rlUEKI.KSS 
ElliESIhE. 

Wk  sat  by  tin-  chrerlrHs  fireside, 
Mothir,  .md  you,  and  I; 

All  tbiukinu  of  our  darling, 
Aud  tutd  enough  to  die. 


lie  lay  in  his  little  coflin, 
in  the  ri>om  adjoining  oiu^, 

A  Christmas  wreath  on  his  bosom, 
His  brow  in  a  band  of  llowers. 

•'  We  bury  the  boy  to-morrow," 

I  said,  or  seemed  to  say; 
"  Would  1  could  keep  it  from  coming 

IJy  lengthening  out  to-day! 

"Why  can't  I  sit  by  the  fireside, 

As  I  am  sitting  now. 
And  feel  my  gray  hairs  thinning. 

And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow? 

••  C;od  keep  him  tlxMe  in  his  colHn 
Till  the  years  have  rolled  away! 

If  he  iinist  be  buried  to-morrow, 
Oh,  let  me  die  lo-day ! " 


THE   HEAirn. 

\<)i     may  drink   to   your   leman   in 
gof.l. 

In  a  great  golden  goblet  of  wine; 
She's  as  ripe  as  the  v  ine,  ami  as  bold 
As  the  glare  of  the  gold: 

Hut  this  little  lady  of  mine, 

I  will  not  profane  her  in  wine. 
1  go  where  the  garden  so  still  is, 

(The  moon  raining  throui^h, ) 
To   pluek    the   white    bowls   of 
lilies. 

And  diink  her  in  dew! 


the 


SILENT  S0X08. 

I  !••  1  rotiM  ever  sing  the  .songs 
Within  me  day  ami  night. 

The  only  lit  accompainment 
Woidd  be  a  luU*  of  light. 

A  thousand  dreamy  melodies, 

lU-got  with  pleasant  pain. 
Like  incantations  float  aioimd 

The  «hamlK;rs  of  my  brain. 

Hut  when  I  strive  lo  utter  one, 

It  mock''  my  feeiije  art, 
.\nd  leaves  me  '<llent,  w  illi  the  thorns 

Of  ntu»lc  in  my  begirt! 


STORY. 


543 


William  Wetmore  Story. 


THE    VIOLET. 

O  FAINT,  delicious,  spring-lime  vio- 
let, 
Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 
Turns  noiselessly  in  memory's  wards 
to  let 
A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 

The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my 
brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door 
Tlui  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more 
sweet  and  low, 
And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It    comes    afar,    from   that  beloved 
place, 
And  that  belovfel  hour, 
\\  lieu  life  hung  ripening  in  love's 
golden  grace, 
Like  grapes  above  a  bower. 

A    spring  goes   singing  through   its 
reedy  grass; 
Tiie  lark  sings  o'er  my  head, 
Drowned  in  tjn'  sky. —  Oh,  pass,  ye 
visions,  jjass! 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! 

Why  hast  thou  opened  that  forbidden 
door 
From  which  I  ever  flee  ? 
O  vanished  Joy!  O  Love,  that  art  no 
more. 
Let  my  vexed  spirit  be! 

()  violet!  thy  odor  tlirough  my  brain 
Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 

This  sunny  day,  as   if  a  curse  did 
stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 


THE    UNEXPRESSED. 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole!    the 

poet  ill  his  art, 
Mn«t  intimati  the  whole,  and  say  the 
-mallesi  part. 


The  young  moon's  silver  arc,  her  per- 

feet  circle  tells, 
The  limitless,  within  Art's  bounded 

outline  dwells. 

Of  every  noble  v>ork,  the  silent  pair. 

is  best; 
Of  all  expression,  that  which  cannot 

be  expressed. 

I'^ach  act  contains  the  life,  each  work 

of  art,  the  world, 
And  all  the  plauet-luws  are  in  each 

dewdrop  pearled. 


WETMORE  COTTAGE,  NAHANT. 

The  hours  on  the  old  piazza 

That  overhangs  the  sea. 
With  a  tender  and  pensive  music 

Xi  times  steal  over  me; 
And  again,   o'er  the  balcony  lean- 
ing, 

We  list  to  the  surf  on  the  beach, 
That  fills  with  its  solemn  warning 

The  intervals  of  speech. 

We  three  sit  at  night  in  the  moon- 
light. 

As  we  sat  in  the  summer  gone, 
And  W(>  talk  of  art  and  nature 

And  sing  as  we  sit  alone; 
We  sing  the  old  songs  of  Sorrento, 

Wliere  oranges  hang  o'er  the  sea. 
And    our    hearts    are    tender    with 
dreaming 

Of  days  that  no  more  shall  be. 

How  gaily  the  hours  went  with  us 

In  tho><e  old  days  that  are  gonel 
Ah!  would  we  were  all  together. 

Where  now  I  am  standing  alone. 
Could  life  i)e  again  so  perfect? 

Ah,  never!  these  years  so  drain 
The  heart  of    its  freshness  of   feel 
ing, — 

Ikit  I  long,  though  the  longing  be 
vaiu. 


544 


>7oll7:. 


Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 


LIFE'S  MYSTKny. 

Life's*  mystery,  —  deep,   restless  as 
the  ocean, — 
Hath  surged  aud  wailetl  for  ages  to 
and  fro; 

Ivirth's  generations  waleh  its  cease- 
less motion 
As  in  antl  out  its  hollow  nioaninv's 
flow; 

•-^liivering  and  yearning  by  that  uu-  , 
known  sea,  ' 

Let  my  soul  calm  itself,  O  Christ,  in  ; 
thee ! 

Life's  sorrows,  with  Inexorable  pow- 
er, 
Sweep  desolation  o'er  this  mortal 
plain; 

And  human  loves  and   hopes  lly  as 
the  ehatr 
r.orne  by  the  whirlwind   fmiu  tlie 
ripened  grain:  — 

Ah,  when  before  that  blast  my  hoi)es 
all  flee, 

Lc-t  my  soul  calm  il-df,  <)  Chrisi,  in 
thee ! 

I'.i'tween  the  mysteries  of  death  and 

life 
Thou  standesl.  loving,  guiding, — 

not  explaining; 
U'e  ask,  antl  thi)U  art  silent, —  yet  \M' 

gaze, 
And   our    charmed    hearts    forget 

their  drear  <«)mplaining! 
So  crushing  fate.— no  stony  tlestiny! 
riiMi  Lamb  ihal  hast  br<n  slain,  we 

rest  in  lln-e! 

!  he   many    waves    of    thouglii.    tin- 
miu'liiv   tiiles. 
The  ground-swell  that  rolls  up  from 
other  lands, 

I'loin  far-off  worlils,  from  tlim  eter- 
nal shores 
VVIlOse  eeho  dashes   (Ml    life's  wave- 
woiM  sfrauds. — 

This  vague,  ilark  luandl  of  the  inmr 
aea 


(;rows  calm,  grows  bright,  O,  risen 
Lord,  in  theel 

Thy  pierced  hand  guides  the  myst©- 

ri<iu<  wheels; 
Thy     ihuru-i  Towned     brow     now 

wears  ilie  crown  of  ]K)wer; 
And  when  the  dark  enigma  presseth 

sore 
'liiy  patient   voice  saith,  "Watch 

with  me  one  hour!" 
As  sinks  the  m«)aning  river  in  the 

sea 
In  silver  peace, —  so  sinks  my  soul  in 

Thee! 


TirK  urtiicn  world. 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud. — 

A  world  \\<'  do  not  see; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

lis  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek; 

Amid  our  worMly  <'ares 
Its  gentle  voices  wldsper  love, 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet   hearts  around    ns   throb   au'i 
beat, 

Sweet  h.'lpiug  han<ls  are  stirred, 
And  palpitati's  the  veil  between 

With  bre.ilhings  almost  hearth 

The     silence, — awftd,     sweet,    and 
ealm, 

Tbev  have  no  ]Hiwer  to  lireate; 
For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 

To  niter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  tliey  glide. 

■So  n<'ar  to  press  they  seem, — 
They  st'em  to  hdl  ns  to  our  rest, 

,\iid  melt  Into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  «)f  rest  they  luing. 

"lis  eas\   now  to  sei' 
Ilow  lovely  and  how  s\\,.(l  a  pass 

The  hour  of  duulh  may  be. 


STREET. 


54i 


To  close  the  eye,  and  elose  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

And  gently  dream  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  to  that, —  from  this. 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
.Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away. 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 


Sweet  souls  around  us !  watch  us  still 

Press  neai'er  to  our  side, 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 
Our  suffering  life,  the  dream. 


Alfred  Billings  Street. 


[From  Frontenac.} 
QUEBEC  AT  SUNllISE. 

The  fresh  May  morning's    earliest 

light, 
From  where  the  richest  hues  were 

blended, 
Lit    on    Cape    Diamond's    towering 

height 
Whose     spangled    crystals    glittered 

bright, 
Thence  to  the  castle  roof  descended, 
And   bathed   in   radiance   pure    and 

deep  [steep. 

The     spires    and    dwellings    of    the 
Still  downward  crept  the  strengthen- 
ing rays; 
The  lofty  crowded  roofs  l)elow 
And  Cataraqui  caught  llic  glow, 
Till  the  whole  scene  was  in  a  blaze. 
The    scattered    bastions, —  \v;dls    of 

stone 
With    bristling    lines    of    cannon 

crowned. 
Whose  muzzles  o'er  tin-  landscape 

frowuf^d 
lilaekly    through    their    cndirasures 

—  shone. 
Point    Levi's   woods    sent    many    a 

wreath 
Of  mist,  as  though  hcartlis  smoked 

beneath. 
Whilst  heavy  folds  of  vapor  gray 
Upon  .St.  Charles,  still  l)rooding,  lay; 
The  basin  flowed  in  splendid  dyes 
Classiiu:  tlie  i^lories  of  tlie  skies. 
Ami    chequered    tints   of    ligiit    and 

shade 
The  banks  of  Orleans'  Isle  displayed. 


[From  Frontenac.l 
QUEBEC  AT  SUNSET. 

'Tavas  in  June's  bright  and  glowing 

prime 
The  loveliest  of  the  summer  time. 
The  laurels  were  one  splendid  sheet 
Of  crowded  blossom  everywhere; 
The     locust's     clustered    pearl    was 
sweet,  [air 

And  the  tall  whitewood  made  the 
Delicious  with  the  fragrance  shed 
From   tlie   gold    flowers    all   o'er    it 
spread. 

In  the  rich  pomp  of  dying  day 

Quebec,  th<'  rock-throned  monarch, 
glowed. 
Castle  and  spire  and  dwelling  gray 
Tlie  batteries  rude  that  niched  their 

way 
Along  the  cliff,  beneath  the  play 
Of  the  deep  yellow  light,  were  gay. 
And  I  he  enr\('(i  lluod.  Ijelow  that  lay. 

In  l^ishing  glory  flowed; 
Beyond,  the  sweet  and  mellow  smile 
IJeanieil  upon  Orleans'  lovely  isle; 

Ilnlij  I  he  downward  view 
Was  closed   by  mounlain-tops  that, 

reared 
Against  the  burnished  sky,  appeared 

In  misiy  dreamy  hue. 

West  of  Quebec's  embankments  rose 
The  forests  in  their  wild  repose. 
Between   tlu!    trunks,    the    radiance 

slim 
Here  came  with  slant  and  (juiven 

ing  blaze; 


546 


STREET. 


Whilst  ther*',  in  leaf-\Me;ithe«l  arbors 
dim, 
Was  galht'iiiii;  gray  th«'  Iwiliglit.'s 
haze. 
Where    cut    (lie    Ixuighs    the    back- 
groiiiitl  glow 
Tlial  stripeil  the  west,  a  ghtteriug 
belt, 
The   leaves  transparent  seemed,   as 
though 
lu   the   rich    ratliunee    they    would 
melt. 

Upon  a  narrow  grassy  glade. 

Where   thickets  stood    in    groui)ing 

shade, 
The  light  streaked  down  in  golden 

mist. 
Kindled  tlie  shrubs,  the  greensward 

kissed, 
Until  the  clover-blossoms  white 
Flashed  out  like  spangles  large  and 

bright. 

This  green  and  sim-streaked  glade 

was  rife 
With  sights  and  sounds  of  forest  life. 
A  robin  in  a  bush  was  singing, 

A  (licki-r  rattled  on  a  tree; 
In  lii|uid  fife-like  tones  romid  ringing 

A  ilu'asiier  i)ii)ed  its  meloily; 
Crouciiing  and   leaping  with  pointed 
ear 
From  thicket  to  thicket   a  rai)bit 
sped. 
And    on  the  short   ilclicafe   grass   a 
deer 
Lashing  the  insicts  from  olT  him, 
fe.l. 


[Fiyim  Frrmti  line] 
THE   ('ASAI)IA\  SI'ltlSn. 

'TwA«  May!  the  spring  witii  ma^ic 

Ifloom 
I><'aiM-d    up     from     winter's     frozen 

toml>. 
Day  lit  llie  river's  Icy  mail; 
The   bliind   warm   rain   at    evening 

sank : 
Ire   fnigments   dashed   in  midnight's 

gale; 


The  moose  at    morn    the  ripples 
drank. 
The   yacht,   that  stood   with   naked 
mast 
In  the  locked  shallows  motionless 
Wlien  sunset  fell,    went    curtseying 
past 
As   breathed   the  morning's   light 
caress. 
The  woodman,  in  the  forest  deep. 
At  sunrise  heard  with  gladdening 
thrill, 
\Vliere  yester-i'Ve  was  gloomy  sleej). 

The  brown  rossignol's  carol  shrill; 
Where     yester-eve     the     snowbank 
spreail 
The  hemlock's   twisted   roots   be- 
tween, 
lie  saw  tlie  coltsfoot's  golden  heatl 
iUsing   from    mosses    plump    and 
gn-en ; 
Whilst  all  around  were  l)udding  trees, 
And     mellow    sweetness    tilled     the 

breeze, 
A  few  days  passed  along,  and  brought 
Mon^  changes  as  by  magic  wrought. 
With  plumes  were  tipped  thebeechen 
sprays; 
The    birch,  long  dangling   tassels 
showed; 
Tlu!  oak  still  bare,  but  in  a  Idaze 

<  )f  uoru'eoiis  red  tiie  maj'le  ttlowed; 
Willi  «lusiers  of  the  purest  while 
Cherry  and   shadi)ush   charmed    the 
sight 
r.ike    spots    of    siKiW     thi!     itoMghs 
amoiiu; 
And  showers  nf  strawberry  blossoms 

made 
liieh  carpels  in  each  I'u-ld  and  ulade 
Where    ilay    its     kindliest     glances 
flung. 
Ami  air,  ft)o,  hailed    spring's  joyoiiH 
sway ; 
The    blueliiid     warbji-d    clear    and 
sweel  ; 
Then  came  the  wren  with  carols  gay. 
The   customed    roof  and    porch  Ko 
greet ; 
The  mockliird  showed  its  varifd  skill; 
At    evenin'4   moaned    the    whii)po()r- 

will. 
Tyi>e   nf    till-    spring    from    winter's 
gloom! 


8TBEET. 


547 


The  butterfly  new  being  found ; 
Whilst  round  the  pink  may-apple's 
bloom, 
Gave  myriad  drinking  bees  their 
sound. 
Great    fleeting    clouds    the    pigeons 

made; 
When    near  her  brood    the  himter 
strayed 
With  trailing  hmp  the  partridge 
stirred ; 
"Whilst  a    quick,  feathered    spangle 

shot 
Rapid  as  thought  from  spot  to  spot 
Showing  the  fairy  humming-bird. 


\^Fro'm  Fronfetiac] 
CAYUGA  LAKE. 

Sweet  sylvan    lake  I   in    memory's 

gold 
Is  set  the  time,  when  first  my  eye 
From  thy  green  shore  beheld  thee 

hold 
Thy  mirror  to  the  simset  sky ! 
No  ripple  brushed  its  delicate  air. 
Rich  silken  tints  alone  were  there; 
The  far  opposing  shore  disiilayed, 
Mingling  its  hues,  a  tender  shade; 
A  sail  scarce  seeming  to  the  sight 
To    move,   spread    there   its  pinion 

white. 
Like  some  pure  spirit  stealing  on 
Down  from  its  realm,  by  beauty  won. 
Oh,  who  could  view  the  scene  nor 

feel 
Its  gentle  peace  within  him  steal. 
Nor  in  his  inmost  bosoTU  bless 
Its  piin^  an<l  radiant  loveliness? 
My  heart  bent  down  its  willing  knee 
Before  the  glorious  Deity; 
Beauty  led  up  my  heart  to  Ilini, 
Beauty,  though  cold,  and  poor,  and 

dim 
Before  His  radiance,  beauty  still 
That  made  my  bosom  deeply  thrill; 
To  higher  life  my  being  wroui:iit, 
And  purified  my  every  thought. 
Crept  like   soft  music  throimh   my 

mind. 
Each  feeling  of  my  soul  refined, 
And  lifted  me  that  lovely  even 
One  precious  moment  up  to  heaven. 


Then,  contrast  wild,  I  saw  the  cloud 

The  next  day  rear  its  sable  crest. 
And   heard    with    awe   the   thunder 
loud 
Come  crashing  o'er  tliy  blackeninj:; 
breast. 
Down  swooped  the  eagle  of  the  blast. 
One  mass  of  foam  was  tossing  liigh; 
Whilst  the  red  lightnings,  fierce  and 
fast,    • 
Shot  from  the  wild  and  scowlin;.' 
sky, 
And  burst  in  dark  and  mighty  train 
A  tumbling  cataract,  the  rain. 
I  saw  witliin  the  driving  mist 
Dim   writhing   stooping  shapes,— 
the  trees 
That  the  last  eve  so  softly  kissed. 

And  birds  so  filled  with  melodies. 
Still   swept    the  wind   with    keener 
shriek. 
The  tossing  waters  higher  rolled. 
Still   fiercer  flashed  the    lightning's 
streak. 
Still  iiloomier  frowned  the  tempest's 

ioia. 

All,  such,  all,  surli  is  life,  [  sighed, 

Tliat  lovely  yester-eve  and  this!     i 

Now  it  ii'fleets  the  radiant  priile 

Of  youth  and  hope  and  promised 

bliss. 

Earth's  future  track  an  Eden  seems 

Brighter    than    e'en    our    brightest 

dreams. 
Again,  the  tempest  rushes  o'er. 
The  sky's  blue  smile  is  seen  no  more, 
The  placid  deep  to  foam  is  tossed. 
All  trace  of  beauty,  peaee,  is  lost. 
Despair  is  hovering,  dark  and  wild. 
Ah!  what  can  save  earth's  stricken 
child  ? 

Sweet  sylvan  lake!  beside  thee  now. 
Villages     })oint     their     spires     to 
heaven. 

Bich    meadows    wave,    broad    grain- 
fields  bow. 
The  axe  resounds,   the   iilough   is 
driven  : 

Down  \  erdant  points  come  herds  to 
drink. 

Flocks  strew,  like  spots  of  snow,  tby 
blink; 


&48 


STREET. 


The  frequent  farm-house  meets  the 

sijjht, 
Mill     falling    hanests    scythes    are 

bright,. 
The  Wiitclwioiii's  hark  comes   faint 

from  far, 
Shakes  oil  the  car  tin-  saw-mill's  jar, 
'J"hf  stcauKT  likf  a  dartiii'^  bird 

Parts  the  rich  emerald  of  thy  wave. 
And   the    gay  song  and    laugli  are 

heani, 
lint  all  is  o'er  the  Indian's  grave. 
Pause,  white  man!  check  thy  onwanl 

stride! 
Cease  o'er   the    flood    thy  prow  to 

guide ! 
Until  is  given  one  sigh  sincere 
¥oT  those  who  once  were  monarchs 

here, 
And  jirayer  is  made  beseeching  (!<)d 
To  si>are  us  his  avenging  rod 
For  all  tlie  wrong's  upon  the  head 
Of  the  poor  helpless  savage  shed ; 
Who,  strong  when  we  were  weak,  did 

not 
Tnimple  us  down  upon  the  spot, 
lint,  weak  when  we  were  strong,  was 

ciust 
Like  leaves  \i\ion  the  rushing  blast. 

Sweet  sylvan  lake!  one  single  gem 

Is  in  thy  li<niid  diadem. 

No  sist<T  has  this  little  isle 

To  givi'  its  beauty  suiile  for  suule; 

With  it  to  hear  tjie  blue-bird  sing; 

"  Wake,  leaves,    wake.  Mowers!   here 

come-s  the  spring!" 
With    it     to    wi-ave     for     suiniuer's 

tread 
Mos,ses  below  and  bowers  o'erhead; 
With  it  lo  Hasli  to  gorgeous  skies 
'I'lie  opal  pomp  of  •lutuinii  skies; 
And   when   sli-rn    winter's   temi)ests 

l»low 
To  shrink  beneath  his  robes  of  snow. 

Sweet  sylvan  lake!  that  isle  of  thine 
Is   like   one   hope   through   grief   to 

shine: 
Is  Hk«»  one  ;ii'  our  life  to  eheer; 
Is  like  one  |I<i\\it  when  aM  is  sere; 
4)Mi-  ray  amidst  the  tempest's  might; 
'•'I-  .star  amidst  the  'jlonm  of  nJKiii. 


A   FORK  ST   WAUL 

A  LOVEi.v  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, 
A  wind  that  breathes  of  leaves  anA 
tlowers, 
O'er  hill,  through  dale,  my  steps  han 
nm 
To     the     cool    forest's    shadowy 
bowers ; 
One  of  the  paths  all  round  that  wind, 
Traced    by  the   browsing  herds,   I 
choose. 
And  sights  and  soumlsof  hiunun  kind 

In  Nature's  lone  recesses  lose: 
The  beech  displays  iLs  marbled  bark. 
The  sjiruce  its  green  tent  stretches 
w  ide. 
While  scowls  the  hcudock  ltIiu  and 
dark. 
The  maple's  scalloped  ilome  beside. 
,\ll  wea\e  on  high  a  veniant  inuf 
Thai  keeps  the  very  sun  aloof. 
Making  a  twilight  soft  ami  green 
Within  the  columned,  vaulted  si-eiie. 

Sweet  forest-odors  have  their  birth 
From  the  r-lollied  boughs  ami   le.iii- 
ing  earth; 
Where  i)ine-<'ones  (IrojUKil,  leaves 
piled  and  dead 
Long    tufts   of  grass,  and    stars    of 

fern. 
With    many    a    wild    flower'.s    fairy 
inn, 
A  thiek.  elastic  earpet  spread: 
Here,  with  its  mossy  pall,  the  trunk. 
!;esolviug  into  soil,  is  sunk: 
'I'liere,  wieucbed  but    lalelv  fmui    ilp 
tbroiic 
Hy  some  fierce  whirlwind   eircling 
)>ast, 
Its  liuge  roots  massed  with  earth  and 
stone, 
One  of  the  woodland  kings  U  cast 

.\liove,  the  foreHl-lii>s  are  l»rlght 
Willi  the  broad  blazi-  of  .sunny  light; 
Hut  now  atiiful  alr-giisi  |>art,s 

'the  .sereeniiiL;  iiranehe<,,  and  a  glow 
Of  da/./.ling.  slartliug  radianee  darts 
Down  Ibe  d.-irk  stems,  and  breaks 
Ik-Iow  ; 
The  mingled  sbadt>ws  olT  are  mlled, 
i'lie  sNl\.in  lloiir  is  bathed  in  ({(dd; 


STREET. 


549 


Low  sprouts  and  herbs,  before  un- 
seen 
Display  their  shades  of  brown  and 

green : 
Tints  brighten  o'er  the  velvet  moss, 
Uleams  twinkle  on  tlie  laurel's  gloss; 
The  rol)in,  brooding  in  her  nest, 
Chirps  as  the  quick  ray  strikes  her 

breast ; 
And,  as  my  sliadow  prints  the  ground, 
1  see  the  rabbit  upward  bound, 
With  pointed  ears  an  instant  look, 
Then  scamper  to  the  darkest  nook, 
Where,  witli  crouched  limb  and  star- 
ing eye. 
He  watches  while  I  saunter  by. 

A  narrow  vista,  carpeted 

With   rich  green  grass,   invites  my 

tread : 
Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots. 
There  drops  the  shade  in  ebon  spots. 
So  blended  that  the  very  air 
Seems  net-work  as  I  enter  there. 
The    partridge,    whose    deep-rolling 

drum 
Afar  has  sounded  in  my  ear. 
Ceasing  his  beatings  as  I  come. 
Whirs   to  the  sheltering  l)ranfh(!s 

near; 
The  little  milk-snake  glides  away, 
The  brinilled  marmot  dives  from  day; 
And   now,'  between    the  boughs,    a 

space 
Of  the  blue,  laughing  sky.  I  trace: 
On    each   side    shrinks   the   bowery 

shade ; 
liefore  me  spreads  an  emerald  glade; 
The  sunshine  steeps    its  grass  and 

moss ; 
That  couch  my  footsteps  as  I  cross; 
Merrily  hums  the  tawny  l)ee. 
The  glittering  hummiiiLC-bird  I  see; 
Floats  the  bright  buttertly  along, 
The  insect  choir  is  loutl  in  song; 
A  spot  of  light  and  life,  it  seems.  — 
A  fairy  haunt  for  Fancy's  dreams. 

Here  stretched,  the  pleasant  turf  I 

press 
In  luxury  of  idleness; 
Sun-streaks,  and  glancing  wings,  and 

sky 
Spotted  with  cloud-shapes  cliarm  iny 

eye : 


While  murmuring  grass  and  waving 

trees  — 
Their    leaf-harps   sounding    to    the 

breeze  — 
And  water-tones  that  tinkle  near, 
Blend  their  sweet  music  to  my  ear; 
And  by  the  changing  shades  alone. 
The  passage  of  the  hours  is  known. 


THE   DLUK-niRD'S  SONG. 

Hauk,  that  sweet  carol!    With  de- 
light 
We  leave  the  stifling  room ; 
The  little  bluebird  meets  our  sight, — 
Spring,  glorious  spring,  lias  come! 
The    south-wind's    balm    is   in   the 
air,  [where 

The    melting    snow-wreaths    every- 

Are  leaping  off  in  showers; 
And  Nature,  in  her  brightening  looks, 
Tells  that  her   flowers,    and   leaves, 
and  brooks, 
And  birds,  will  soon  be  ours. 


{From  "  The  Nook  in  the  Forest."] 
A   PICTURE. 

TiiK  branches  arch  and  shape  a  pleas- 
ant bower, 

]3reaking  white  cloud,  blue  sky,  ami 
sunshine  bright 

IiUo  pure  ivory  and  sapphire  spots. 

And  flecks  of  gold;  a  soft,  cool  eme- 
rald tint 

Colors  the  air,  as  though  the  delicate 
leaves 

Emitted  self-born  light.  Wliat splen- 
did wails. 

And  what  a  gorgeous  roof,  carved  by 
the  hand 

Of  glorious  Nature!  Here  the  spruce 
thrusts  in 

Its  bristling  plume,  tipped  with  its 
pale-green  points; 

The  hemlock  shows  its  border^, 
freshly  fring(><l; 

The  smoothly-soallopcil  beech-leaf 
and  the  birch. 

Cut  into  ragged  edges,  interlace: 

While  biMe  and  there,  tlironub  clefts. 
the  laurel  hangs 

Its  gorgeous  chalices  half-Orinnned 
with  dew. 


550 


SUCKLING. 


As  though  to  hoard  it  for  the  haunt- 

iu'j,  elves. 
The   inoonli;;ht   calls   to   this,    their 

festal  hall.  Ithe  earth 

A  thiek,  rieh.   grassy  carpet  clothes 
bpriiikled  with  aiituiuu  leaves.     The 

fern  ilisplays 


Its    lluteil    wreath,    headed    Ijeiu-afli 

w  ilh  drops 
Of    richest     l>ro\vn;    the     wihl-rosc 

spreads  its  hreast 
Of  delicate  pink,  and  the  o'erhangiiig 

lir 
Has  dropped  its  dark,  long  cone. 


Sir  John  Suckling. 


coysTANcr. 

Oi'T  upon  it !  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  tui,'ether; 

Ami  am  like  to  love  thee  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings, 

Ere  he  shall  tliseover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again. 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me; 
Love  with  im;  had  made  no  stays, 

Except  it  had  been  she. 

Had  it  any  been  hut  she 

And  that  ver>'  face, 
'J'here  had  hci-n  at  least,  ere  this, 
A  ilii/.rii  in  her  place! 


H'/ir  .so  /M/.A   .i\/)  irAX.  mx/) 

LOVIUi? 

Wnv  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prithee,  wiiy  so  pale  '> 
Will,  when  looking  well  e.m't  move 
hrr, 

Loftking  ill  j)revail  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 

U'hy  HO  dull  anil  unite,  yoimg sinner? 

I'rithee.  why  sr)  mute? 
iVill,  when  Hjieaking  well  can't   win 
her. 

Saving  nothing  do't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  I 


(^uit,  <|iiit    for  shame,  this  will  not 
move. 

This  cannot  take  her; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nolliinu;  eaii  make  her: 

Til.'  .l.vil  lake  iii-r. 


/    I' till' HE K    SESh    ME    HACK    Ml 
IIKAUT. 

I  PKITIIKK  send  me  hack  my  heart. 

Since  1  can  not  have  thine. 
For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  j)arl. 

Why    then    should'sl     thou    have 
mine  ? 

Yei  now  I  think  on't.  let  ii  lie, 

'\\)  lind  it  weie  in  vain; 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Woidd  steal  it  hack  agitin. 

Whv  shoidd  two  hearts  in  one  hreasi 
lie. 

.\nd  yet  not  lodv'e  lo'^'ether? 
(»  love!  where  is  thy  sYUipathy. 

If  thus  our  lireasis  thou  sever? 

HiU  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  <-annol  find  it  out ; 
For  when  I  think  I'm  iiest  resolved, 

1  then  am  in  most  douhl. 

Then    fjuewcll,    care,    and    farewell 
woe, 

1  will  no  longer  pine; 
For  I'll  believe  I  have  her  heart 
As  mucli  as  she  has  mine. 


SURREY. 


551 


Earl  of  Surrey  (Henry  Howard). 


THE   MEANS 


TO    ATTAIN   HAPPY 
LIFE. 


Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life,  be  these,  I  find ; 

The  riclies  left,  not  got  with  pain ; 
The     fruitful    ground,    the    quiet 
mind : 

The    equal    friend,    no   grudge,    no 

strife ; 
No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance; 
Without  disease,  the  health  fid  life; 
The  household  of  contiiuiance : 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare; 
True  wisdom  joined  with  simple- 
ness; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care, 
Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  op- 
press : 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate ; 
Such  sleeps  as    may  beguile    the 
night. 
Content  thee  with  thine  own  estate ; 
Ne  wish   for    death,   ne    fear  his 
might. 


FROM  "NO  AGE  IS   CONTENT." 

I  saw  the  little  boy 

In  thought  —  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God  to  'scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be: 
The  young  man  eke.  that  feels 

His  l)ones  with  pains  opi)rest, 
How  he  would  he  a  rich  old  man, 

To  live  and  lie  at  rest. 

The  rich  oM  man  that  sees 

His  enil  draw  on  so  sore. 
How  he  would  he  a  l)oy  again, 

To  live  so  luuoh  the  more; 
Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled, 

To  see  how  all  tln-se  three. 
From  l)oy  to  man.  from  man  to  boy. 

Would  chop  and  change  degree. 


IN    PRAISE    OF    HIS     LADY-LOVE 
COMPARED  WITH  ALL  OTHERS. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 
That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags 
in  vain; 
My  lady's  beauty  passeth  more 

The    best    of    yom-s,    I   dare   well 
say'n, 
Than     doth     the     sun     the    candle 

light, 
Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 
As  hail  reiielope  the  fair; 

For  what  she  yaith  yi;  may  it  tmst. 
As  it  by  writing  sealed  were; 

And  virtues  hath  she  many  mo' 

Than    1    with    pen     have    skill    to 
show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would. 
The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint, 

When  she  had  lost,  the  perlil  mould. 
The  like  to  whom  she  coidd  not 
jiaint : 

With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did 

cry,  ^ 
And  what  she  said,  1  know  it,  I. 

1  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind. 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart. 
There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 
That  could  have  gone  so  near  her 
heart; 
And  this  was  chietly  all  her  pain; 
"  .She    could     not     make     the    like 
again." 

Sith  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise 
To     be     the     chiefest    work    she 
wrought; 
In  faith,  methink!  some  better  ways 
On    your    behalf    might    well    \A 
sought. 
Than  to  eomjjare.  as  ye  have  <loue, 
I  To  maich  the  candle  with  the  sun. 


652  BWIXBURNE. 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

/A'  MEMOIiY    OF  liARKY  COliXWALL. 

In  the  garden  of  death,  where  the  singers  whose  names  are  deathless. 

One  with  another  make  music  unheard  of  men. 
Whore  the  dead  sweet  roses  fade  not  of  lips  long  hreatldess, 

.\nd  Ilie  fair  ey<'s  shine  tliat  sliall  wee])  not  or  ehauge  again, 
Wlio  eonies  now  crowned  willi  the  i)lo>soin  of  snow-white  years? 
What  musie  is  tiiis  tlial  liie  world  of  the  dead  men  hears? 

Beloved  of  men,  whose  words  on  our  lips  were  honey, 
Whose  name  in  our  ears  and  our  fathers'  ears  wa.s  sweet, 

Like  summer  gone  forth  of  the  land  his  songs  maile  sunny. 
To  the  beautiful  veiled  hrighl  world  where  tlie  glad  ghosts  meet, 

Child,  father,  hriiiegroom  ami  hride.  and  anguish  and  rest, 

No  soul  shall  pass  of  u  singer  than  this  more  hlest. 

Blest  for  the  years'  sweet  sake  that  were  tilled  and  hrigljtened. 
As  a  forest  with  liirds,  witli  the  fruit  and  the  llower  of  his  song; 

For  the  souls'  sake  Idesi  that  lieard,  and  their  cares  were  lightened. 
For  the  hearts'  sake  hlesi  thai  have  fostered  his  name  so  lung; 

By  the  living  and  dead  lips  hlest  tha    have  loved  his  name, 

And  clothed  with  their  praise  and  crowned  with  their  love  for  fame. 

Ah,  fair  and  fragrant  his  fame  as  (lowers  that  close  not, 
That  shrink  not  by  tlay  for  heat  or  for  cold  l»y  night. 

As  a  thought  in  the  lieart  shall  increase  when  the  heart's  self  knows  not 
Shall  endure  in  our  cars  as  a  sound,  in  our  eyes  as  a  light; 

Shall  wax  with  the  years  that  wane  and  the  seasons'  rliime. 

As  a  white  rose  thornless  that  grows  in  the  ganleii  of  time. 

The  same  year  calls,  and  one  goes  hence  with  another, 

And  men  sit  sad  that  were  glad  for  tlieir  sweet  songs'  .-^ake; 

The  same  year  l)(>ek<ins,  and  eldi-r  w  itli  younger  brother 

Takes  mutely  the  cup  from  his  hand  that  w«'  all  shall  lake.» 

They  pass  ere  the  leaves  be  past  or  the  snows  be  come; 

And  the  birds  an;  loud,  but  the  lips  that  outsang  them  dumb. 

'J'ime  takes  ihein  home  tJiat  we  loved,  fair  names  and  famous, 
To  the  soft  lung  slet>p,  to  the  broad  sweet  lio>om  of  death; 

But  the  llower  of  their  s(jnls  he  shall  lake  uoi  away  to  shame  iw, 
N<»r  liie  lips  lack  song  forever  thai  now  lack  breath. 

For  with  us  shall  the  music  and  i)erfume  that  die  not  dwell, 

Though  the  dead  to  our  dead  bid  welcome,  and  we  farewell. 


FROU  **  A  risiox  or  srn/\(]  /.v  iriM'Kii: 

Al  sweet  desire  of  day  In-fore  the  day, 

As  dreams  of  love  before  the  true  love  bom. 
From  llu;  outer  edge  of  winter  overworn 

The  glioHt  arist'ii  tti  .May  before  the  .May 


*  Sydney  I)ob«ll  diud  the  aaiiiu  yo»r. 


SWINBURNE.  65? 


Takes  through  dim  air  her  uuawakened  way, 

The  gracious  ghost  of  morning  risen  ere  mom. 
Witli  little  unblown  hreasts  and  child-eyed  looks 
Following,  the  very  maid,  the  girl-child  spring, 
Lifts  windward  her  bright  brows, 
Dips  her  light  feet  in  waion  and  moving  brooks. 
And  kindles  with  her  own  mouth's  coloring 

The  fearful  firstlings  of  the  plumeless  boughs. 

I  seek  thee  sleeping,  and  awhile  I  see, 
Fair  face  that  art  not,  how  tliy  maiden  breath 
Shall  put  at  last  tlie  deadly  days  to  death 

And  fill  the  fields,  and  fire  tlie  woods  with  thee, 

And  seaward  hollows  where  my  feet  would  be 
When  heaven  shall  hear  the  word  that  April  saith, 

To  change  the  cold  heart  of  the  weai-y  time, 
To  stir  and  soften  all  the  time  to  tears, 
Tears  joyf uller  than  mirth ; 

As  even  to  May's  clear  heiglit  the  young  days  climb 
With  feet  not  swifter  than  those  fair  first  years 

Whose  flowers  revive  not  with  thy  flowers  on  earth 

I  would  not  bid  thee,  though  I  might,  give  back 

One  good  thing  youth  has  given  and  borne  away; 

I  crave  not  any  comfort  of  the  day 
That  is  not,  nor  on  time's  retrodden  track 
Would  turn  to  meet  the  white-robetl  hours  or  black 

That  long  since  left  me  on  their  mortal  way; 
Nor  light  nor  love  that  has  been,  nor  the  breath 

That  comes  with  morning  from  the  sun  to  be 
And  sets  light  hope  on  fire : 
No  fruit,  no  flower  thought  once  too  fair  for  death, 

No  flower  nor  hour  once  fallen  from  life's  green  tree. 
No  leaf  once  plucked  or  once-fulfilled  desire. 

The  morning  song  beneath  the  stars  that  fled 

With  twilight  through  the  moonless  mountain  air, 
While  youth  with  burning  lips  and  wreathloss  hair 

Sang  toward  the  sun  that  was  to  crown  his  head. 

Rising;  the  hopes  that  triumi)hed  and  fell  dead, 
The  sweet  swift  eyes  and  songs  of  liours  that  were: 

These  may'st  thou  not  give  back  forever;  these, 
As  at  the  sea's  heart  all  hei-  wrecks  lie  waste. 
Lie  deeper  than  Iho  sea; 

But  flowers  thou  may'st,  and  winds,  and  hours  of  ease 
And  all  its  April  to  the  world  thou  may'st 
Give  back,  and  half  my  April  back  to  me. 


A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN. 

Vs  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland 
At  the  sea-iiown's  edge  l)i>twe(in  windwanl  and  lee, 

Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 
The  gliost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 


054  SWINBLliNE. 


A  jiinllt'  of  l)i'ii.sh\vuo(l  ami  thorn  encloses 

The  stt'ej)  .squan'  sIojk»  of  the  hlossonili'ss  bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  yreeii  from  the  graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  (lea(.l. 

Tlie  fields  full  southward,  ahru])!  and  t)roken, 

To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  sand. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  he  spoken. 

Would  a  ghost  not  rise  of  the  si  range  guest's  hand? 
So  long  have  tlie  gray  hare  walks  lain  guestless. 

Through  hninches  and  hriers  if  a  man  make  way, 
He  shall  tind  no  life  iiut  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  anil  tlay. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  Idind  and  stilled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  clind» 
To  the  strail  wa^te  ])laee  that  the  years  have  rifled 

Of  all  hut  ilie  thorns  that  are  tom-hed  not  of  time. 
The  thorns  lie  s|)ares  when  Ihi'  rose  is  iai<en: 

The  rocks  an*  left  when  he  wa-les  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken. 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  prestof  the  foot  thai  falls  not; 

As  tlie  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  ^ci'd-i.|ois  are  dry; 
From  the  thicket  of  i horns  whence  the  night ingale  ealls  DOt^ 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  hlossom  anil  wither 

Kings  hul  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song; 
Only  ilie  siui  and  the  rain  come  hither, 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One  gaimt  bleak  blossoui  of  scentless  breatll. 

Only  the  wind  here  luncrs  and  revels 

III  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

lb-re  there  was  laughing  of  (dd,  there  was  weeping, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know. 

Whose  eyes  went  .seaward,  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  haiidfast  in  heart  a.s  they  stcxwl,  ''  1-ook  thither," 

Did  he  whisj>i-r  ?     "  Look  forth  from  the  llowfislo  the  .sea' 

For  tiie  foam-lioweis  <'ndure  when  the  rosc-hlo.s.soms  w itiier. 
And  men  thai  love  li«lilly  may  <lie  —  bui  wci*" 

And  I  lie  same  wind  sang  and  I  In-  same  waves  whitened, 
.And  or  ever  llie  uardeii's  last  |)eials  were  shed. 

In  iIk'  lips  that  had  whispered,  ib.-  <  y-s  that  bad  lightened, 
l/ove  was  dead. 

Or  they  |ove<1  their  life  through,  and  ilieii  uiiit  whither? 

.\iid  were  one  to  the  end  —  but  what  end  who  knows  i' 
I/ove  (b-i|>  ii.H  the  sea.  a.s  a  ro.se  must  wither. 

An  the  roitti-red  .seu  wt-ed  that  niockts  the  ruiK 


SWINBURNE. 


550 


Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love  them? 

What  lovo  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them, 
Or  the  wave. 


All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  rlitfs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  hereafter 

Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or  weep, 
When,  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and  laughter 
We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever ; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise  up  never. 

Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground  growing, 

Wliile  the  sun  and  the  lain  live,  these  shall  be; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea; 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  cruml)l<\ 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 

Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides  humble 
The  fields  tliat  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink, 

Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter. 
Stretched  out  on  tlie  spoils  that  his  own  hand  spread 

As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  Ues  dead. 


A  MATCH. 


If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 

And  i  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather. 
Blown  fields  ot  Howerful  closes. 
Green  pleasure  or  ^ray  !j;rief : 
If  love  were  what  tlie  rose  is. 
And  i  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

With  double  sound  and  siuulc 

Delight  our  lips  woidd  mingle. 

With  kis.ses  glad  as  birds  are 
That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon; 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are 
And  love  were  like  tlie  tiuiu. 


If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 

And  I  your  love  were  death. 
We'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  Marcli  made  sweet  the  weathe 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

.\nd  liours  of  fruitful  tireath; 
if  you  were  life,  my  (iariiug. 

And  1  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons, 
With  loviu'.;  iot)ks  and  'I'ea.sons 
-Viid  tiMis  of  night  and  morrow 
\\u\  iauglis  of  m  ul  and  boy; 
if  you  well-  thrall  to  sorrow. 
And  1  were  page  to  joy. 


&56 


SWIMUltNE. 


If  you  were  April's  lady, 

Ami  I  were  lord  in  May, 
WfM  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  foi-  days  uilh  (lowers. 
Till  da\  like  nii,'ht  were  siiady. 

And  ni<j;ht  wen-  hri^hl  like  day 
If  you  were  Ai)ril's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  (|ueen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  kini;of  pain. 
We'd  iuuil  down  iove  together, 
I'link  out  Ids  tlying-featlier. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  Were  (|Uiin  of  pleasure, 
Aud  1  were  king  of  paiu. 


FROAt "  CHRISTMAS  AJfT/PHOXES. 

LN  curncu. 

Tiiof  whose  hirth  on  earth 

Angels  sang  to  men, 
Wliili'  tliy  stars  made  mirth, 
Saviour,  at  thy  hirth. 

This  day  horn  au'ain; 

As  this  night  w;us  hright 

Willi  thv  eradle-ray, 
"Very  !-igh"t  of  light.  " 
Tiun  the  wild  world's  night 

To  thy  pcrfi  ri  day. 

floil,  whose  feet  made  sweet 
Those  wild  ways  lh<-y  trod, 

From  thy  fragrant  fcft 

Stainini,'  li<ji|  and  street 
With  th.-  Mood  of  <;od; 

(io<l,  wIjorp  hreast  is  rest 

In  the  time  of  strife, 
In  tliy  Hceicf  hrejust 
iShfiicring  souls  opprest 

From  llje  h<'al  of  life; 

fitxl,  whose  eyes  are  skies, 
Lov.-Jii  as  with  spheres, 

Hy  th.-  li-rhts  that  rise 

To  thy  waleliint;  eyi-s, 
OrWd  lights  of  tvui-u; 


God,  whose  heart  hath  part 

In  all  grief  that  is, 
\Vas  not  man's  the  dart 
That  went  ihrougli  thine  heart. 

And  the  wound  not  his? 

Where  the  pale  souls  wail, 
Meld  in  bonds  of  death. 
Where  all  spirits  (piail. 
Came  tiiy  Godhead  jtale 
Still  from  hiuiian  i)reaMi,— 

Tale  from  life  and  strife. 

Wan  with  manliood,  eauie 
Forth  of  mortal  life, 
IMereed  as  with  a  knife, 
Seurred  ;is  with  a  llauie. 

Thou,  the  Word  and  Lonl 

in  all  tim*-  and  space 
Heard,  l)chcld,  adore«l, 
With  all  ages  poured 

Forth  before  tliy  faee; 

Lonl.  what  worth  in  earth 
Drew  tl down  to  die? 

What  therein  was  woith. 

Lord,  thy  death  and  birth  ? 
What  beneath  thy  sky  ? 

Light,  above  all  love, 

hy  thy  love  was  lit. 
Ami  hroM'4hl  down  tln>  doTe 
Feathered  from  above 

With  the  wings  of  It. 

From  the  height  of  night, 
Wa^  not  thine  the  star 

That  led  forth  with  might 

Hy  no  worldly  light 
Wis»!  men  from  «far? 

^et  tlie  wise  men's  eyps 

Saw  thee  not  more  clear 
Than  I  hey  s.iw  thee  rise 
Who  in  siiephertl's  guise 
1  )rew  as  poor  men  near. 

Yet  thy  jioor  endure. 

,\nd  are  with  us  yet; 
He  thy  name  a  sure 
Hefiigc  for  Ihv  poor 

Whom  nieii  s  c\es  forget. 


SWINBURNE. 


557 


Thou  whose  ways  we  praise, 

Clear  alike  and  dark. 
Keep  our  works  and  ways 
This  and  all  thy  days 

Safe  inside  thine  ark. 

Who  shall  keep  thy  sheep, 

Lord,  and  lose  not  one  ? 

Who  save  one  shall  keep, 

Lest  the  shepherds  sleep  ? 

Who  beside  the  Son  ? 

From  the  grave-deep  wave, 

From  the  sword  and  flame, 
Thou,  even  Thou,  shall  save 
Souls  of  king  and  slave 
Only  by  thy  Name. 

Light  not  born  with  morn 

Or  her  fires  above, 
Jesus  virgin-born, 
Ileld  of  men  in  scorn, 

Tm"n  their  scorn  to  love. 

riiou  whose  face  gives  grace 

As  the  sun's  doth  heat, 
Let  thy  sunbright  face 
Lighten  time  and  space 
Here  beneath  thy  feet. 

Bid  our  peace  increase, 
Thou  that  madest  mom ; 

Bid  oppressions  cease ; 

Bid  the  night  be  peace; 
Bid  the  day  be  born. 

OUTSIDE  CHUKCH. 

We  whose  days  and  ways 
All  the  night  makes  dark, 

What  day  shall  we  praise 

Of  these  weary  days 
That  our  life-drops  mark  ? 

We  whose  mind  is  blind, 

Fed  with  hope  of  nought; 
Wastes  of  worn  mankind, 
Without  heart  or  mind. 
Without  meat  or  thought; 

We  with  strife  of  life 

Worn  till  all  life  cease. 
Want,  a  whetted  knife. 
Sharpening  strife  on  strife. 
How  should  we  love  peace  ? 


Ye  whose  meat  is  sweet 

And  your  wine-cup  red, 
Us  beneath  your  feet 
Hunger  grinds  as  wheat, 
Grinds  to  make  you  bread. 

Ye  whose  night  is  bright 
With  soft  rest  and  heat. 

Clothed  like  day  with  light, 

Us  the  naked  night 
Slays  from  street  to  street. 

Hath  yom'  God  no  rod. 
That  ye  tread  so  light  ? 

Man  on  us  as  God, 

God  as  man  hath  trod. 
Trod  us  down  with  might. 

We  that  one  by  one 

Bleed  from  eithers  rod. 

What  for  us  hath  done 

Man  beneath  the  sun. 
What  for  us  hath  God  ? 

We  whose  blood  is  food 

Given  your  wealth  to  feed, 
From  the  rinistless  I'ood 
Red  with  no  God's  blood, 
But  with  man's  indeed; 

How  shall  we  that  see 
Night-long  overhead 

Life,  the  f'owerless  tree. 

Nailed  wlicreon  as  we 
Were  our  fathers  dead. — 

We  whose  ear  can  hear. 

Not  whose  tongue  can  namt 

Famine,  ignorance,  fear, 

Bleeding  tear  by  tear, 
Year  by  year  of  shame. 

Till  the  diy  life  die 

Out  of  bloodless  breast, 
Out  of  beaniless  eye, 
Out  i)f  mouths  that  C17 

Till  dc.ith  feed  with  rest,— 

How  shall  we  as  ye. 
Though  ye  bid  us,  pray  ? 

Though  ye  call,  can  we 

Hear  yiiu  i-all.  or  see, 
Though  ye  show  us  day  ? 


d58 


tjiMOiWa. 


We  whose  name  is  shame, 
\Vc  whose  souls  walk  hare, 

^liall  we  call  the  saiiir 

(Joil  as  ye  hy  iiaiiic, 
Teacli  our  lips  your  prayer  ? 

Goil,  forgive  and  give, 
For  Ills  sake  who  ilied  ? 

Nay,  for  ours  who  live, 

How  shall  we  forgive 
Thee,  then,  on  our  side  ? 

We  whose  right  to  light 

Heaven's  high  noun  denies, 
Whom  the  blind  beams  smite 
Thai  for  you  shine  bright. 
And  but  burn  our  eyes. 

With  what  dreams  of  beams 

Shall  we  build  up  day. 
At  what  soureeless  streams 
■Seek  to  drink  in  dreams 
Ere  they  pass  away  ? 


In  w  hat  street  shall  meet, 

At  what  mark<'t-pla<e, 
Your  fifi  and  our  b-«-t, 
\\"\\\i  niif  goal  to  gre.'I, 
Having  run  one  raee  ? 

What  one  hope  shall  ope 

I'or  us  all  as  one, 
( )in'  same  horoscope. 
Where  the  sold  sees  hope 

That  outburns  the  sun? 

At  what  shrine  what  wine. 
At  what  iioard  what  breail; 

Sah  as  blood  or  brine. 

Shall  we  share  in  sign 
How  we  poor  were  fed  ? 

In  what  hour' what  jHJwer 
Sliall  we  pray  for  mora, 
If  your  perfect  hour, 
WIh'U  all  day  bears  flower, 
Not  for  us  is  born  V 


John  Addington  Symonds. 


MES'K,  MESH. 

That  precious,  ])riceless  iiifl,  a  soul 
I'nto  thyself  surreudiMi'd  whole. 
U'iilidrawn  from  all  but  thy  control. 
Thou  hast  foregone. 

The  throne  where  none  niighl  sit  l)ut 

thou, 
Tlie  crown  of  love  to  bind  thy  brow, 
(ilad    homage   paiil    with   praise  and 

vow, 

Thou  hast  foregone. 

I  do  Dot  blame  thee  utterly, 
hut  ralhrr  -^trivr  to  iiily  life, 
licueinlnriiig  all  tin-  emjiery 

Thou  hajil  foregone. 

It  was  thy  folly,  not  thy  crime. 
To  havf  cont<-mn<-d  tin-  <  all  sublimr, 
The    H'.iIiii    more    lirm    than  fale  or 
tiiiii- 

Thou  host  foregone. 


HE  ATI  ILU. 

Hi.f.sr   is   the  man  whose  heart  ami 

hands  are  jmre! 
H*-  hath  no  sickness  that  hi*  shall  not 

iMIlf. 

No  sorrow   that   ln'  may  not  wrll  en- 

diuc: 
His  feel  are  steadf.'isl  and  his  hope  is 

sure. 

Ob.  hl<>l  is   be  who   iir'er  hath    sold 

hi-*  soul. 
Whose    will    is    perfect,    and    whose 

wr»rd  is  whole, 
Who  hath  not  paid  to  conimon  sriisc 

the  loll 
of     self-disgrace,     nor     ow  n«'d     ilio 

witrld's  <ontrol ! 

Throiit'li  eloiids  and  sliadows  of  the 

ilaikesi  night 
lie  will  not  lone  a  glimmering  of   iliu 

li^bt, 


SYMONDS. 


559 


Kor,    though    the    sun    of    day    be 

shrouded  quite, 
Swerve  from  the  narrow  path  to  left 

or  riirht. 


ON  THE  HILL-SIDE. 

The  winds  behind  me  in  the  thicket 

sigh, 
The  bees  fly  droning  on  laborious 

wing, 
Pink  cloudlets  scarcely  float  across 

the  sky. 
September  stillness  broods  o'er  every- 
thing. 
Deep  peace  is  in  my  soul:  I  seem  to 

hear 
Catullus  murmuring,   "Let  us    live 

and  love ; 
Suns  rise  and  set,  and  fill  the  rolling 

year 
Which  bears  us  deathward,  therefore 

let  us  love; 
Pour  forth    the  wine  of  kisses,   let 

them  flow. 
And  let  us  drink  our  fill  before  we 

die." 
Hush!  in  the  thicket  still  the  breezes 

blow;  [sky; 

Pink  cloudlets  sail  across  the  azure 

The     bees    warp    lazily    on     laden 

wing; 
Beauty    and     stillness    brood    o'er 

everything. 


THE    WILL. 

Blamk  not  the  times  in  which  we 

live, 
Nor  Fortune  frail  and  fugitive ; 
Blame  not  thy  i)arents,  nor  the  rule 
Of  vice  or   wrong   once  learned   at 

school; 
But  blame  thyself,  ()  man! 

Although    both    heaven    and    earth 

combined 
To   mould   thy   flesh  and   form   thy 

mind, 
Though  every  thought,  word,  action. 

will, 
Was  framed  by  powers  bevond  tliee, 

still 
Thou  art  thyself,  O  man! 


And  self  to  take  or  leave  is  free, 
Feeling  its  own  sufficiency: 
In  spite  of  science,  spite  of  fate, 
The  judge  within  thee,  soon  or  late. 
Will  blame  but  thee,  O  man! 

Say  not,  "  I  would,  but  could  not  — 

He 
Should    bear   the  blame  who  fash 

ioned  me  — 
Call    you    mere    change    of    motive 

choice  ?"  — 
Scorning  such  pleas,  the  inner  voice 
Cries,  "  Thine  the  deed,  O  man ! " 


FAREWELL. 

Thou  goest:  to  what  distant  place 
Wilt  thou  ihy  sunliglit  carry  ? 

I  stay  with  cold  and  clouded  face: 
How  long  am  I  to  tarry  ? 

Where'er  thou  goest,  morn  will  be: 

Thou  leavest  night  and  gloom  to  me 

The  night  and  gloom  I  can  but  take 
I  do  not  ixi"udge  tliy  splendor: 

Bid  souls  of  eager  men  awake; 

Be  kind  and  bright  and  tender. 

CJive  day  to  other  worlds;  for  me 

It  nmst  suffice  to  dream  of  thee. 


NEW  LIFE,  NEW  LOVE. 

Apkh,  is  in; 
New  loves  begin! 
Up,  lovers  all, 
The  (•uck<ws  call  I 
Winter  is  by. 
Blue  shines  tlie  sky, 
Primroses  l)low 
Wliere  lay  cold  snow: 
Then  uhv  >hc>iilii  I 
Sit  still  and  sigli  ? 

Death  look  mv  dear: 
Oil,  pain!  Oh!  fear! 
I  know  not  wliither. 
When  Mowers  did  withe: 
My  siumner  love 
Flew  far  above. 


5t>0 


yyMO.\'DS. 


Now  must  I  liiul 
One  to  my  miml: 
The  world  is  wiile; 
Spriiii:  litlds  are  pied 
With  llowei-s  for  tliee, 
New  love,  and  me  I 

April  is  in: 
New  loves  lief;in! 
Up,  lovers  all, 
The  cuckoos  call  I 


FHOM  FItlKSh    TO   FIUF.M). 

Deak   friend,  I   know   not    if  sueh 

days  and  nit^hls 
Of  fervent  comradesliip  as  we  have 

spent, 
Or  if  twin  minds  with  einuil  ardor 

bent 
To  search  the  world's  unspeakable 

ileliuhts. 
Or  jf  loim  hoius  passed  on  Parnas- 
sian hei;;hts 
Toj,'eth'r  in  rapt  intermini;lemenl 
Of    heart   with    heart    on    tlioiii^ht 

sublime  intent. 
Or  if  the  spark  of  lioaven-born  lire 

tliat  lii;hts 
Love  in  both  breasts  from  boyhooti. 

tliUN  have  wniuyht 
Our  sj)irit3  to  communion;  but    I 

swear 
That  neitlior  elianee    nor   ehanp' 

nor  time  noraui;hl 
That  makes  the  future  of  our  liv<'S 

less  fair. 
Shall    sunder   us   who  one<     havf 

l)reailn'd  this  air. 
Of     soul-eoiiuuini^lin^     fiii'n<lshi|i 

pa-ssioii-fraui^ht. 


THK   ntlSTK   in   I' A  It  Mil  so. 

Ok  all  the  mysteries   wherethroUL;h 

we  move. 
This  is  the  most  mysterious  —  that 

a  face, 
8cen  prraij venture  in  some  ilislant 

pla.-. 
Whith"  I  wi'  can  r'turu  no  more  to 

prove 


The  worlil-old  sanctities  of  human 

love, 
Shall  hauul  our  waking  thoughts. 

and  uatheriu.n  f^race 
Incorporate  itself  with  every  phase 
Whereby  the  sold  aspires   to  (iod 

above. 
Thus  are   we   wedded   thmugh  that 

face  to  her 
Or  him  who  bears  it;  miy,  one  fleet- 
in  i^  f^lanee. 
Fraui;iu   with  a  tale  too  deep  for 

utterance. 
Even  as  a  pebble  east  into  the  sen. 
Will  on  the  tleep  waves  of  our  sjiirit 

stir 
Ilipple-i  that  run  through  all  eter- 

uil  V. 


|/Vv>m  Thr  .tipt  anil  llnh/.] 
SELF. 

'Tis  self  whereby  we  suffer;  'tis  the 
-reed 

To  grasp,  tln'  himcer  to  a.isiuulalc 

All  that  earth  hold.4  of    fair    and 
delicate. 

The  lust  to  blend  with  beaut<'ous 
lives,  to  ficd 
And  take  our  till  of  loveliness,  whicli 
breed 

This  anguish  of  the  soul  intempe- 
rate; 

'Tis  ^.If  iliat  nuns  topiiin  and  poi- 
sonous hate 

The    calm    clear    lilr    of    love    the 
ate.'.-U  l-ad. 
(),    that    'ivNcre   jiosiiile   this   self   to 
burn 

In  the  jMire  llames  of  joy  coiUem- 
l.lative! 


Tin:   I'ltAYKIi   TO  MSKMOSYNK. 

I, A  It  v.  when   (irst   the  message  came 
to  me 
<  >f  thy  great  ho|><-  and  all  thy  futurr- 

bliss, 
I  had  no  envy  of  that  ha|i]iinefl8 
Whieh  scis  a  limit  lo  oiu-  joy  in  thee: 
Itiit.  ulifrini:  orisons  to  !,'ods  who  i^ff 
( >tu' mortal  strife,  and  i lidding  them 

to  \)\vMi 


SYMONBS. 


561 


With  increase  of    pure  good  thy 
goodhness, 
I  made"  unto  tlie  mild  Mnemosyne 
More  for  myself  than  thee  one  prayer 
— that  when 
Our  paths  are  wholly  severed,  and 
thy  years 
Glide  among  other  cares  and  far-off 
men, 
She  may  watch  over  thee,  as  one 

who  hears 
The  music  of  the  past,  and  in  thine 
ears 
Murmur  "  They  live  and  love  thee 
now  as  then." 


SONNETS  FROM  ''INTELLECTUAL 
ISOLA  TION." 

Nay,  soul,  though  near  to  dying,  do 

not  this! 
It  may  be  that  the  world  and  all 

its  ways 
Seem    but    spent  ashes  of  extin- 
guished days 
And  love,  the  phantom  of  imagined 

bliss; 
Yet  what  is  man  among  the  mysteries 
Whereof    the    young-eyed    angels 

sang  their  praise  ? 
Thou  know'st  not.     Lone  and  wil- 

dered  in  the  maze. 
See  that  life's  croAvn  thou  dost  not 

idly  miss. 
Is    friendship    fickle  ?      Hast    thou 

found  her  so  ? 
Is   God  moi-e   near    thee  on   that 

!ionicl(\ss  sea 
Than   by  the  hearths  where  chil- 
dren come  and  go  ? 
Perchance  some;  rotten  root  of  sin  in 

thee 
Ilath   made   thy   garden'  cease  to 

i)lo()ni  and  glow: 
Hast  thou  no  need  from  thine  own 

self  to  tl.T  ■> 

..T  is  the  cent'i'  of  the  soul  that  ails: 
We  carry  with  us  our  own  heart's 

diseasf'; 
And    craving  the   impossible,   we 

freeze 


The  lively  rills  of  love  that  never 

fails. 
AVliat  faith,  what  hope  will  lend  the 

spirit  sails 
To   waft   her  with  a  light   spray- 
scattering  breeze  [sies, 
From  this  Calypso  isle  of  phanta- 
Self-sought,    self-gendered,   where 

the  daylight  pales  ? 
Where  wandering  visions  of  foregone 

desires 
Pursue    her  sleepless  on  a  stony 

strand ; 
Instead  of  stars  the  bleak  and  bale-  • 

f  ul  fires 
Of     vexed     imagination,    quivering 

spires 
That  have  nor  rest  nor  substance, 

light  the  land. 
Paced    by    lean    hungry   men,    a 

ghostly  band! 

On,  that  the  waters  of  oblivion 
Might  purge  the  burdened  soul  of 

her  life's  dross, 
Cleansing  dark  overgrowths  that 

dull  the  gloss 
Wherewith    her    pristine   gold   so 

purely  shone ! 
Oh,  that  some  spell  might  make  us 

dream  undone 
Those  deeds  that  fret  our  pillow, 

when  we  toss 
Hacked    by   the   torments  of  that 

living  cross 
Where    memory    frowns,   a    grim 

centurion !  [smart. 

Sleep,  the  kind  soother  of  our  l)()dily 

Is  bought  and  sold  by  scales-weight ; 

(luivering  nerves 
Sink  into  sliunber  when  the  hand 

of  art 
Hath  touched  some  hidden  spring  of 

brain  or  heart : 
But  for  the  tainted  will  no  medi- 
cine serves; 
The   road    from  sin    to    suffering 

never  swerves. 


What  skill  shall  anodyne  the  mind 
diseased  '.' 
Did    Itome's   fell    tyrant  cine   his 
secret  sore 


562 


TALFOUBD. 


With    thoso    famed    draughts    of 
cooling  lu'Uehoro  ? 
W\iA{  opiates  on  tht;  fiends  of  thought 

liave  seized  ? 
This  fever  of  the  spirit  hath  been 
*'as«'<l 
D>  no  grave  simples  culled  on  any 
shore; 
No    surgeon's    knife,    no    muttered 
<-harni,  no  lore 
Of  rhieliiis  I'aiau  have  those  pangs 
appeased. 


Herself  must  be  her  savior.     Side  by 

side 
Spring   juiisonous  weed  and  hop*'- 

ful  antidot4> 
Within  lier  tangled  herbage:  lonely 

l>ride 
Aiu\  humblf  fellow-service;   dreams 

that  dote 
Deeds  that  aspire;  foul  sloth,  free 

labiir:  she 
Hath   power  to  choose,  and  wlial 

she  wills,  to  be. 


Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 


[Fmni  /o«.] 
LITTLE   K/XDNESSES. 

Tlie  blessings  which  the  weak  and 
poor  can  scatter 

ITavn  their  own  season.  'Tis  a  little 
tlung 

To  give  a  cup  of  water;  yet  its 
draught 

Of  cool  rcfrt'shmcnt,  drained  by  fe- 
vered lips. 

May  give  a  slux-k  of  pleasure  to  the 
franii' 

More  ex«iuisit<'  than  when  nectarian 
juice 

l{enews    I  lie    life  of    joy  in   liappiest 

llOUIS. 

It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  conuMon  comfort,  which  by  daily 

use 
lias  almost  lost  its  sense ;  yet  in  the 

ear 
Of    bim    who    thought    to  die    uu- 

inoiirned.  'twill  fall 
IJko  clioicoHt  musii",  lill  the  gla/ing 

eye 
With  gentle  tears;  relax  the  knottid 

Iiaiid 
To    know    the    bonds  of    fellowHbi|i 

again. 
An<l   shed   on  the  departing  soul,  a 

sense 
More   precioiiH  than  the  benisoii  of 

friends 
Alxiut  the  lionored  dc«lh-bed  of   the 

rich 


To   liiin   who  else  were  lonely,  that 

another 
Of    the   great    family    is    near,  and 

feels. 


ox  TiiF  i;/:r/:/'rin\  or  ironDs- 
u'o irni  AT  oxFonn. 

On  I  never  did  a  mighty  truth  pre- 
vail 

With  sui'h  felicities  of  place  and 
time 

As  in  those  shouts  sent  forth  with 
joy  sublime 

Kram  the  full  heart  of  Kiiiiland's 
youth,  to  hail 

Her  once  neglected  bard  wilbiii  llie 
p;.le 

Of   Learning's  fairest  citJidell    Thai 

\(>ice, 
In    wbieli    the  futme  tbumlei-s.  iiids 

rejojee 

Some  wiio  throiiuh   wintrv   foituni-s 

did  no!  r.'iil 
To  bless"  with    love  as  deep  as  life. 

the  name 
Thus     welcomed; — who    in     bajipy 

silence  share 
The    triumph;    while    their    fontlest 

musings  claim 
I'nhoped-for    echoes    in    tlie    joyous 

air. 
That  to  llnir  long-loved  poet'.s  sjiirit 

bf.ir. 
A  nation's  jiromiseof  undying'  fame. 


TANNAHILL. 


563 


Robert  Tannahill. 


THE  MIDGES  DANCE    A  BOON 
BURN. 


THE 


The  midges  dance  aboon  the  bui-n; 

The  dews  bei^in  to  fa' ; 
The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

!Set  up  their  e'ening  fa'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's 
sang 

Kings  through  the  briery  shaw, 
Wliiie  flitting  gay,  tlie  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay; 
The  red-breast    pours  his    sweetest 
strains, 

To  chai-m  the  ling'ring  day; 
While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn, 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry, 
The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 


THE  FLOWER  O'  DUMBLANE. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er   the 
lofty  Benlomond, 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  ])reside 
o'er  the  scene, 
While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  sum- 
mer gloamin'. 
To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower 
o'  Dumblane. 


How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  saft 
fauldin'  blossom, 
And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  man- 
tle o'  green ; 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to 
this  bosom, 
Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower 
o'  Dumblane. 

She's  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as 
she's  l)onuie, — 
For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her 
its  a  in; 
And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of 
feeling. 
Wha'd  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet 
flower  o'  Dumblane. 

Mug  on.  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn 
to  the  e'ening, — 
Thou'rl  dear  to  ilie  echoes  of  Cal- 
derwood  glen ; 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless 
and  winning. 
Is    cliarniing     young    Jessie,    the 
flower  o"  Dumblane. 

How  lo!st  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi' 
my  Jessie ! 
The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  fool- 
ish and  vain; 
I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  would  ca'  my 
dear  lassie 
Till  charmoil  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the 
flower  o'  Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were    the  station  o' 
loftiest  grandeur. 
Amidst  its  profusion  I'd  languish 
in  pain. 
And  reckon  as  naething  the  height 
o'  its  splendor, 
H  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  tht*  flowei 
o'  Dxunblane. 


564 


TAYLOR. 


Bayard  Taylor. 


OS   THE  IIKADLASI). 

I  SIT  on  the  lonely  headland, 
WliiMV  the  sea-gulls  ooiue  and  go: 

The  sky  is  gray  above  uie. 
And  the  sea  is  gray  below. 

There  is  no  fisherman's  pinnace 
Homeward  or  outward  bound; 

I  see  no  living  <reature 

In  the  woriil's  deserted  round. 

I  pine  for  something  himian, 
Man,  woman,  young  or  old, — 

Sonu'tliing  to  meet  and  wrlcome, 
Something  to  elasp  and  hold. 

I  have  a  mouth  for  kisses, 

lint  there's  no  one  to  give   and 
take; 
I  have  a  heart  in  my  bosom 

Ut-ating  for  nobody's  sake. 

()  warmth  of  love  that  is  wasted! 

Is  tiien*  nimf  to  strt'li-h  a  hand  ? 
No  othtT  heart  that  hungers 

In  all  the  living  land  ? 

1  could  fondle  the  (ishennan's  baby, 

And  ro'k  it  into  rest; 
1  foiild  tiikf  llie  sunliurnt  sailor, 

Like  a  brother,  to  my  breast, 

I  fould  clasp  the  hand  of  any 

( )utcast  of  hmd  or  sea. 
If  the  guilty  palm  but  answered 

Tlic  tendernijss  in  me! 

The  sea  might  rise  and  drown  mc; 

f  lifTs  fall  anil  orush  my  head, — 
Were  there  one  to  love  me.  living. 

Or  weej)  to  see  me  dead! 


^ 


THE   EAT)! Ell. 

The  fateful  hour,  when  death  stood 
by 
An<l  stretched  bis  threatening  band 
in  vain. 
U  over  now.  ami  life's  first  cry 
S|>eak.H  feeble  triumph  through  its 
pain. 


But  yesterday,  and  thee  the  earth 
Inscribed  "  nut     on     her     niightj 
scroll: 
To-day  slie  opes  the  gate  of  birth, 
And    gives    the    spheres    another 
soul. 

]}ut  yesterday,  no  fruit  from  me 
Tile    rising    winds    of     time    had 
hurled 

To-ilav.  a  father, —  can  it  be 

A  child  of  mine  is  in  the  world  ? 

1  look  ujion  the  little  franu'. 
As  helpless  on -my  arm  it  lies: 

Thou   giv'sl    me,    child,   a    father's 
name, 
(Jod's  earliest  name  in  Panwlise. 

Like  llim.  creator  too  I  stand: 

His  power  and  myst«-ry  si^ein  more 
near; 

Thou  giv'sl  me  honor  in  the  land. 
.\n<l  giv'st  my  life  duration  here. 

Hut  love,  to-<lay,  is  more  than  prid«'; 
Love    sees    his    star    of     triumph 
shine. 
For  life  nor  death  can  now  divide 
The  souls  til. It  wedded   lin-atbe  ill 
thine: 

Mine  and  thy  mother's,  whence  arose 
The  copy  of  niv  fai'c  in  thee; 

And  as  thine  eyelids  lirst  unclose. 
My  own   young   i-yes   h>ok   uj*   \u 
me. 

I,ook  on  me.  child,  om-e  more,  onci' 
more, 
Kven    with     those    weak,    uncon- 
scious eves; 
.Stretch  the  small  hands  tliat  lidp  im 
|ilore; 
S.iluie  me  with  thy  wailing  cries! 

This  is  the  blessing  antl  the  prayer 
A  father's  siicred  )>la-e  demamls: 
Onlain  me.  darlini;.  for  thy  eare. 
And    lead     me    with    iJiy    helplem 
bauds! 


TAYLOB. 


565 


A  FUNERAL   THOUGHT. 

Whkn  the   stern  genius,   to  whose 
hollow  tramp 
Eclio  the  startled  chambers  of  the 
soul, 
Waves  his  inverted  torch  o'er  that 
pale  camp 
Where  the  archangel's  final  trum- 
pets roll, 
1  would  not  meet  him  in  the  chamber 
dim, 
Hushed,  and  pervaded  with  a  name- 
less fear. 
When    the    breath  flutters  and  the 
senses  swim, 
And  the  dread  hour  is  near. 

Though  love's  dear  arms  might  clasp 
me  fondly  then 
As  if  to  keep  the  Summoner  at  bay. 
And  woman's  woe  and  the  calm  grief 
of  men 
Hallow  at  last  the  chill,  unbreath- 
ing  clay, — 
These  are  earth's  fetters,  and  the  soul 
would  shrink. 
Thus  hound,  from  darkness  and  the 
dread  unknown. 
Stretching  its  arms  from  death's  eter- 
nal brink. 
Which  it  must  dare  alone. 

But  in  the  aw^'ul  silence  of  the  sky. 
Upon  some  nrountain  summit,  yet 
mitrod, 
Through    the    blue    ether    would    I 
climb,  to  die^<^"^' 
Afar  from  mortSiKi  and  alone  with 
(4od !  - 

To  the  pure  keepingof  the  stainless  air 
Would   I  resign  my  faint  and  flut- 
leriiig  breath. 
And  with  tiie  rapture  of  an  answered 
prayer 
Receive  the  kiss  of  Death. 

Then  to  the  elements  my  frame  would 
turn; 
"No  wonns  should  riot  on  my  cof- 
fined clay. 
But  the  cold  limbs,  from  that  sepul- 
chral urn. 
In  tlic  slow  storms  of  ages  waste 
away. 


Loud  winds  and  thunder's  diapason 

high 

Should  b(!  my  requiem  through  the 

coming  time,  '      l^l<^y> 

And  the  while  summit,  fading  in  the 

My  monument  sublime. 


PROPOSAL. 

The  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 

The  cowslip  loves  the  lea; 
The  scarlet  creeper  loves  the  elm; 
But  I  love  —  thee. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mormt  and  vale. 

The  stars,  they  kiss  the  sea; 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover-bloom, 
But  I  kiss  —  thee ! 

The  oriole  w^eds  his  mottled  mate : 

The  lily's  bride  of  the  bee; 
Heaven's  marriage-ring  is  round  the 
earth, — 
Shall  I  wed  thee  ? 


WfXn  AND  SEA. 

The  sea  is  a  jovial  comrade. 

He  laughs  wherever  he  goes; 
His   merriment  shines   in   the  dim- 
pling lines 
That  wrinkle  his  hale  repose; 
He  lays  himself  down  at  the  feet  of 
the  Sun, 
And  shakes  all  over  with  glee. 
And    the   broad-backed   billows  fall 
faint  on  the  shore, 
In  the  mirth  of  the  mighty  Sea! 

But  the  Wind  is  sad  and  restless, 

And  cursed  with  an  inward  pain ! 
You  may  hark  as  you  will,  by  vallev 
or  hill. 
But  you  hear  him  still  complain. 
He  wails  on  the  barren  mountains. 

And  shrieks  on  the  wintry  sea; 
He  sobs  in  the  cedar,  and  moans  in 
the  pine. 
And   shudders  all  over  the  asi>eTi 
tree. 

Welcome  are  both  their  voices. 
And  I  know  not  which  is  best,  — 


566 


TAYLOR. 


V\\o    laii!;ht»'r    that    slips    from   tlu- 
Oci'iiii's  lips. 
Or  tin:  cninforiii'ss  Wind's  unrest. 
There's  a  paiii;  in  all  njoiciii!:, 

A  jov  in  tin-  Iwarl  of  pain, 
AuiIiIk-  Wind  tiial  saddens,  the  Sea 
llial  i^laddens. 
Are  sin-'ing  the  self-same  strain! 


t\ 


IX   Tin:   MLADOU'S. 

I  T.IF.  in  the  summer  meadows, 

In  the  nii-ad()\vs  all  alone. 
With  the  intinite  sky  ahove  mo, 

.Vnd  the  sun  on  his  midday  throne. 

The  sni.dl  of  the  (lowering  grasses 

l>>\\«oi(  T  than  any  rose, 
And  a  million  happy  insects 

Sing  in  the  warm  repose. 

The  mother  lark  that  is  brooding 
Feels  the  sun  on  her  wini^s. 

And  the  ilreps  of  the  noonday  glitter 
With  swarms  of  faii-y  Ihini^s. 

From  the  billowy  green  beneath  me 
To  the  fathomless  blue  above, 

Thf  creatures  of  (Jod  are  hapjiy 
In   tht!   warmth  of   their  summer 
love. 

Th.-  infiinte  bliss  of  Nature 

1  f.-.l  in  ev.-rv  vein; 
Tin-  li-ht  and  tin-  life  of  summer 

IJlossoni  in  heart  and  brain. 

lint  darker  than  any  shadow 
IJy  thundi-r-elouds  imfurled, 

iiii-  awful  irnlh  arises, 

thai  Death  is  in  the  world. 

\nd  the  Bky  may  In-am  us  ever, 
\n<l  never  a  i\»\u\  b«-  curleil; 

\nd  th.'  airs  Im-  living  i.dors. 
I '.lit  Dralb  is  in  th<-  worl<l! 

(  hit  (»f  the  deeps  of  sunshine 
The  Invititil.-  b<.li  islmrled: 

There's  life  In  lb.-  -niumtT  meadows. 
But  Death  i«  in  Hi"'  vNorM. 


HF.FOIiR   THE  BRIDAL. 

Now  the  nii;h1  is  oveqiast. 

.Vnd  llie  nii-^I  is  cleared  away: 
On  mv  barren  life  at  last 

Ihtiiks  the  brijiht.  reluctant  day. 

Day  of  payment  for  the  wrong 
I  was  doomed  so  long  to  l)ear; 

Day  of  promise,  day  of  song. 
Day  that  makes  the  future  fair! 

Let  me  wake  to  bliss  alone; 

Ia-1  me  bury  every  fear: 
What  I  i)rayed  for  is  my  own; 

Wliat  was  distant,  now  is  near 

For  the  happy  Inwir  that  waits 
No  reproaeiifnl  shade  shall  bring. 

And  i  iiear  foruiv  iiiii  Fates 
In  the  haj.py  bells  that  ring. 

Leave  the  song  that  now  is  mute, 
For  the  sweeter  scmg  begim: 

Leave  the  lilossom  for  the  fndt, 
.\iu\  the  rainbow  for  the  sun! 


SQUASDEItED    LlfKS. 

TiiK  lisherman  wades  in  the  .surges; 

The  sailor  sails  over  the  sea; 
The  soldier  steps  bravely  to  battle; 

'I'he  woodman  lays  axe  to  the  tree. 

They    are    t;uh  of    the  breed  of    tho 
herties. 

The  ni.inliood  allempered  in  strife; 
Strong  han<ls  thai  go  lightly  to  labor, 
True  hearts  that    take   i-omfort  in 
life. 

In  each  Is  the  seed  to  replenish 

The  world  with  the  vigor  it  needs,— 

Tlieeenln-  of  lionesi  alb-el  iollS, 
The  imi.ulse  to  L;.Mierolls  .leeils. 

Hut  the  shark  drinks  llie  blood  of  the 
lisln-r; 
The  sailor  is  dropped  in  the  sea; 
The  soldier  lies  .did  by  his  eaiinon; 
'I'he    woodman    is   «ruslie«l   by    liis 
tree. 


TAYLOR. 


567 


t)uch  prodigal  life  that  is  wasted 
In  manly  achievement  miseen, 

But  iengtiiens  the  days  of  the  coward, 
And    strengthens    the  crafty  and 
mean. 

The  blood  of  the  noblest  is  lavished 
That  the  selfish  a  profit  may  find; 

But  God  sees  the  lives  that  are  squan- 
dered, 
And  we  to  His  wisdom  are  blind. 


THE  LOST  MAY. 

When    May,    with    cowslip-braided 
locks, 
Walks  through  the  land  in  green 
attire. 
And  bums  in  meadow-grass  the  phlox 
His  torch  of  purple  fire: 

When    buds    have    burst  tlie  silver 
sheath, 
And  shifting  pink,  and  gray,  and 
gold 
Steal  o'er,  the  woods,  while  fair  be- 
neath 
The  bloomy  vales  unfold : 

When,  emerald-bright,  the  hemlock 
stands 
New-feathered,  needled    new,  the 
pine; 
And,  exiles  from  the  orient  lands. 
The  turbaned  tulips  shine: 

When  wild  azaleas  deck  the  knoll. 
And  cinque-foil  stars  the  fields  of 
home, 
And  winds,  that  take  the  white-weed, 
roll 
The  meadows  into  foam : 

Then  from  the  jubilee  I  turn 
To  other  Mays  that  I  have  seen. 

Where    more    resplendent    blossoms 
bum, 
And  statelier  woods  are  green ; — 

Mays  when  my  heart  expanded  first. 
A  honeyed  blossom,  fresh  with  dew ; 


And  one  sweet  wind  of  heaven  dis- 
persed 
The  only  clouds  I  knew. 

For  she,  whose  softly  murmured 
name 

The  music  of  the  month  expressed, 
Walked  by  my  side,  in  holy  shame 

Of  girlish  love  confessed. 

The  budding  chestnuts  overhead. 
Their  sprinkled  shadows    in    the 
lane,  — 
Blue    flowers    along   the    brooklet's 
bed,  — 
I  see  them  all  again ! 

The  old,  old  tale  of  girl  and  boy, 

Repeated  ever,  never  old : 
To  each  in  turn  the  gates  of  joy, 

The  gates  of  heaven  unfold. 

And  when  the  punctual  May  arrives, 
With  cowslip-garland  on  her  brow, 

We  know  what  once  she  gave  oiu: 
lives. 
And  cannot  give  us  now! 


THE  MYSTERY. 

Thou  art  not  dead ;  thou  art  not  gone 
to  dust; 
No  line  of  all  thy  loveliness  shal' 
fall 
To  formless  ruin,   smote  by  Time, 
and  thrust 
Into  the  solemn  gulf  that  covers  all. 

Thou  canst  not  wholly  perish,  though 
the  sod 
Sink  with  its  violets  closer  to  thy 
breast ; 
Though   by  the  feet   of  generations 
trod. 
The   headstone  crumble  from  thy 
place  of  rest. 

The  marvel  of  thy  beauty  cannot  die; 
The  sweetness  of  tiiy  presence  shall 
nut  fade; 
Earth  gave  not  all  the  glory  of  thine 
eye.  — 
Deatl)  may  not  keep  what  Death  haa 
never  made. 


5C8 


TAYLOR, 


1i    was    not    tlilno,    that    forehead 
strange  and  eold, 
Nor  tliosf  (hinil>  lips,  they  hid  be- 
mailj  the  snow; 
Thif  heart  wimM  tlirob  beneath  that 
passive  fold, 
Tlnj  hands  for  nie  that  stony  c]asi> 
forego. 

I>ut   thon  liadst  gone,  —  gone  from 
the  dreary  land. 
Gone  from  the  storms  let  loose  on 
every  hill. 
Lured   by  the  sweet  persuasion  of  a 
hand 
Whieh  leads  thee  somewhere  in  the 
distance  still. 

Where'er    thou    art,    I    know   thou 
wearest  yet 
The  same  bewildering  beauty,  sane- 
ti  fieri 
Hy  ealnier  joy,  and  touched  with  soft 
regret 
For  hini   who  seeks,   but   cannot 
reach  thy  side. 

I   keep  for  thee  tiie  living  love  of 
old. 
And  seek  thv  place  in  Nature,  as  a 
ehild 
Whose  hand  is  parted  from  his  play- 
male's  hold. 
Wanders  an<l   cries  along  a  lone- 
some wild. 

When,  in  the  wateh«'s  of  my  heart,  I 
liear 
The   mi'ssages   of   purer   life,  and 
know 
'I'he  footntcpH  of  thy  spirit   linKsring 
near. 
The  darkness  hides  the  way  that  I 
slmuld  go. 

<'ansl  thoti  not  bid  the  empty  reahns 
reHlore 
That     fiirm,    the    symbol    of    thy 
heavenly  jiart  ? 
Or  on   the   fields  of   barren  silence 

^^  That    voice.   tb«  perfwl   iiiuhIc  of 

thy  heart  ■.' 


Oh,  once,  once  bending  to  these  wi<l 
owed  lips. 
Take  back   the  tender  warmth  of 
life  from  me, 
Or   let   thy   kisses  cloud  with   swif; 
eclipse 
The  light  of  mine,   and  give  me 
death  witli  thee  ? 


THE  a  OS  a   OF   THE  CAMP. 

"Give    us    a    song!"   the  soldiers 
cried, 
The  outer  trenches  guarding. 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  cami'- 
allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Htnian,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under 

And  the  tawnv  mound  of  the  Alal.i 
kolT 
No  longer  belehed  its  thunder. 

There   was   a  jiause.     A  guardsman 
said, 

"  We  .storm  the  forts  to-mornnv: 
Sing  wliile  we  may,  another  day 

Will  brini;  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  aloie.:  tlu'  battery's  side. 

lielow  the  smokiM'4  cannon: 
Brave  h>arts,  from  Severn  and  froiu 
Cly.le. 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame; 

lAirgot  was  Ihiiain's  glory: 
Kach  heart  reealled  a  diffen-nt  name. 

Ihit  all  sanu  "  .\nnie  Lawrie." 

Voice  after  voice  eaiight  up  the  song. 

Hntil  its  lender  passion 
l>'i)se     like     an     anthem,    rich     and 
strong.  — 

Their  battle-iv«!  confession. 

Dear   girl,    her    name    he  daied  not 
sjteak. 

Hut,  as  Mie  song  grew  louder. 
Sometbim:  upon  the  soMiers  r-heek 

Wasjnd  olt  I  he  stains  of  powiler. 


T AY  LOB. 


569 


Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 
TliL'  bloody  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  buist  of 
shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
^Vho  sang  of  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Sleep,  soldiers!  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing: 

The  !)ravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


TO  A  BAVARIAN  GIRL. 

Thou,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daugh- 
ter, 

Alt  a  sliape  of  joy, 
Standing  by  the  Isar's  water 

Willi  thy  brother-boy; 
In  thy  dream,  witli  idle  fiiigers 

Threading  through  his  curls. 
On  thy  chci-k  the  sun's  kiss  lingers, 

Rosiest  of  girls  I 


Woods  of  glossy  oak  are  ringing 

With  the  echoes  bland, 
Wliile  thy  generous  voice  is  singing 

Songs  of  Fathi^rland,  — 
Songs,  that  by  the  Danube's  river 

Sound  on  hills  of  vine, 
And    where   waves    in    green    light 
quiver, 

Down  the  rushing  Rhine. 

Life,  with  all  its  hues  and  changes. 

To  thy  heart  doth  lie 
Like  those  dreamy  Alpine  ranges 

In  tlae  southern  sky; 
Where  in  haze  the  clefts  are  hidden, 

Which  the  foot  should  fear. 
And  the  crags  that  fall  unbidden 

Startle  not  the  ear. 

Where  the  village  maidens  gather 

At  the  foimtain's  brim. 
Or  in  sunny  harvest  weather,  • 

With  the  reapers  trim; 
Where  the  autumn  fires  are  burning 

On  tlie  vintage-hills; 
Where  the  mossy  wheels  are  tmning 

In  the  ancient  mills; 

Where  from  ruined  robber  towers 

Hangs  tlife  ivy's  hair, 
And  tlie  crimson  foxbell  flowers 

On  the  crumbling  stair:  — 
Everywhere,  without  thy  presence 

-    Would  the  sunshine  fail. 
Fairest  of  the  maiden  peasants! 

Flower  of  Isar's  vale. 


Sir   Henry  Taylor. 


IFrom  Philip  Van  Artevelde.]  Whose   stoi7  is  a  fragment,  known 

UNKXOTVN  GREATNESS.  ^,,^^^^  comes"  th.-  man  who  has  the 

Hk   was  a  man  of   that   unsleeping  luck  to  live, 

spirit.  And  In  "s  a  i)iodigy.      Compute  the 

He   seemed   to  live  by  miracle:   his  i  Ikhiccs, 

food  And  deem  there's  ne'er  a  one  in  d;in- 

Was  glory,  which  was  poison  to  his  geroiis  times 

mind  Wlio  w  ins  the  race  of  glory,  but  than 

xVnd  peril  to  his  body.     He  was  one  him 

Of  many  thousand  such  that  die  be-   A  thousand  men  more  gloriously  en 

times,  .  dowed 


570 


TAYLOR. 


Have  fallen  upon  the  course;  a  thou- 
sand others 

Ilave  had  their  fortunes  foiuulere<l 
by  a  chance, 

Whilst  lighter  barks  pushed  p;ist 
them;  to  whom  add 

A  smaller  tally,  of  the  singular  few 

^^^lo,  gifted  with  predouiiuating  pow- 
ers, 

Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep 
the  peace. 

The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greats 
est  men. 


V 

a 


{From  I'hUip  \'an  .trtenlde.] 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE. 

Tms  cirrnlatins  principle  of  life 
That  vivifies  thi-  outside  of  the  earth 
And    penneates  the   sea;    that   here 

and  tiiere 
Awakening  up  a  particle  of  matter, 
Infomjs  it,  organizes,  gives  it  power 
To  gatlier  and  associate  to  itself. 
Transmute,  incorporate  other,  for  a 

term 
Sustains   the  congruoiis   fabric,  and 

then  quits  it; 
This  vagrant  princi|Je  .so  multiform, 
?>bullienl  here  and  undetected  there, 
Is  not  unaulhorizeil,  nur  increatc, 
Tliougii   indestructible.       I.ife  never 

dies; 
Matter  dies  off   it,  and  it    lives  else- 
where, 
Or     elseliow      circumstanced      and 

slia]>ed;  it  goes; 
At  every  instant  we  may  say  'tis  gone, 
IJul  never  it  bath  cea.sed;  the  type  is 

ciianged, 
Is  ever  in  tran.silion,  for  life's  law 
To  its  eternal  essence  doth  prescribe 
Kt4Tiial  mutability;  and  thus 
To  May  I  live  —  says,  I  partake  of  timt 
Wldcli    never  dii-s.     Hut    how    far   I 

may  hold 
All  interest  indivisible  from  lifi- 
Tbrini;;ii  cb;iiig<-  (and  wbrtber  it   be 

mortal  change, 
Change  ot  seneflcence,  or  of  gradual 

growth, 
Or  other  whatso.ver  'lis  alike) 


Is  question  not  of  argimient,  but  fact. 
In  all  men  some  such  interest  inheres, 
In  most  'lis  posthumous;    the   more 

expand 
Our  tlioughls  and  feelings  past  the 

very  present, 
Tlie  more  that  interest  overtakes  of 

cliange 
And  coiiiprcbends,  till  what  it  com- 

preiiends 
Is  comprehended  in  eternity, 
And  in  no  less  a  .span. 

Here  we  are 
Engendered  out  of  nothing  cogniza- 
ble. 
If  this  be  not  a  wonder,  nothing  is; 
If  this  be  wonderful,  then  all  is  so. 
Man's  grosser  attrii)iUes  can  geneiato 
What  is  not.  and  bas  never  been  at  all; 
What  .should    forliid    his    fancy    to 

restore 
A  being  passed  away  '.'     The  wonder 

lies 
In  the  nund  merely  of  tho  wondering 

man. 
Treading  the  steps  of  common  life 

with  eyes 
Of  curious  inquisition,  simie  will  stare 
At  «'acb  di.scovery  of  Nature's  ways. 
As  it  were  new  to  lind    that  (Joil  con 
t  rives. 


[From  I'tiilij)  I'au  Artevelde.] 

LOVE  ItELVCTAXr  TO  EXDAXnER 
ITS   OIUECT. 

TllKKK    is   but   one  thing   that   still 

barks  me  ba<'k. 
To  l)ring  a  <"loud  upon  the  summer 

day 
Of  one  so  liapjiy  and  so  beautifid.  — 
It  is  ;i  bard  condition.      For  myself, 
I  know  not  that  the  cirrumslance  of 

life 
In  all  its  changes  can  so  faralllict  me 
.Vs   make.s  anticipation  nnich  worth 

while. 
\\\\\  she  is  younger,  —  of  a  sex  beside 
Whose  spirits  are  to  ours  as  llame  to 

(ire. 
.More   sndden,   .tnd    more   iierishabltf 

too; 


TAYLOR. 


571 


So  that  the  gust  wherewith  the  one 

is  kiiKlletl 
^Extinguishes  tlie  other.    O  she  is  fair! 
As  fair  as  heaven  to  look  upon!  as 

fair 
As  ever  vision  5f  the  Virgin  blest 
That  weary  pilgrim,  resting  by  the 

fount 
Beneath  the  pahn,  and  dreaming  to 

the  tunc 
Of  flowing-  waters,   duped  his  soul 

withal. 
It  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage 
To  rest  beside  the  fount  benea-h  the 

t  ree, 
Beholding  there  no  vision,  but  a  maid 
"Whose  form  Mas  light  and  graceful 

as  the  palm, 
Wliose  heart  was  pure  and  jocund  as 

tiie  fount. 
And  si)read  a  freshness  and  a  ver- 
dure round. 
This  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage, 
And  loath  aiu  1  to  take  my  staff  again, 
Say  that  1  fail  not  in  this  enterprise; 
Yet  must  my  life  be  full  of  hazardous 

turns. 
And  tlicy  that  house  with  me  must 

ever  live 
In  imminent  peril  of  some  evil  fate. 


{From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 
NATURE'S  NEED. 

Thr  human  heart  cannot  sustain 
Prolonged  unalterable  pain, 
And  not  till  reason  cease  to  reign 
Will  nature  want  some  moments  brief 
Of  other  modils  to  mix  with  grief; 
Such  and  so  liard  to  be  destroyed 
That  vigor  which  abliors  a  void, 
And  in  the  miilst  of  all  distress, 
Such  Nature's  need  for  happiness>' 
And    when    she    rallied    thus,   mv»re 

high 
Her  spirits  ran,  she  knew  not  why. 
Than  was  their  wont,  in  times  than 

these 
T  e.ss  troiil)l(;:l,  wiMi  a  licait  at  ease. 
>S.)  meet  e'-lfiiiafts;  sijuy's  rebound 
l.-iliishosliu''):;!  theliijiiuv/cj^tti^ruiui!! ; 
i'-  '. '  -  .. ui  witii  the i.'uUi\u  tiiAt  otri ve 
1  uci;  ii;i;iiu'  as  they  Uceijli'jf  di/c. 


[From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 
WHEN  JOYS  ARE  KEENEST. 

The  sweets  of  converse  and  society 
Are  sweetest  when  they're  snatched; 

the  often-comer, 
The  boon  companion  of  a  thousand 

feasts, 
Whose  eye  has  grown  familiar  with 

the  fair. 
Whose   tutored   tongue,   by  practice 

perfect  made. 
Is  tamely  talkative,  —  he  never  knows 
That  truest,  rarest  light  of  social  joy 
AVhich  gleams  u^jon  the  man  of  many 

cares. 


{From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.'] 
RELAXATION. 

It  was  not  meant 
By  him  who  on  the  back  the  burden 

bound, 
That  cares,  though   public,   critical, 

and  grave, 
Should  so  encase  us  and  encrust,  as 

shuts 
The  gate  on  w'hat  is  beautiful  below. 
And  clogs  those  entries  of  the  soul  of 

man 
Which  lead  the  way  to  what  he  hath 

of  heaven. 


WHAT  MAKES   A    HERO' 

What  mak(>s  a  hero?  —  not  success, 

not  fame, 
Inebriatfi   merchants,   and   the   loud 
acclaim 
Of  glutted  Avarice,  —  caps  iob-ed 

up  in  air, 
O-  pen  of  journalist   with  llourish 
fair; 
Bells  pealed,  stars,  ribbons,  and  a 
tittilar  name  — 
These,  though  his  rightful  trib- 
ute, JiC  V'^^•'  ■^■f TTc; 
\ixA  rightful     : 
aim, 


072 


TAYLOR. 


liefn'sli  the  soul,  or  set  the  heart 
at  ease. 
What    niaki-s  a   hero?  —  An   heroic 

iniiiil, 
Expressed    in  action,  in  endurance 
proved.  [right, 

And    if  there  be  pre-eminence  of 
Dcriveil  through  pain  well  suffered, 
to  tlif  lii'iglit 
Of    rank    licroic,    'tis   to    bear    un- 
moved. 
Not  toil,  not  risk,  not  rage  of  sea  or 

winil, 
Not    tjie  brute   fury    of    barbarians 
bliii.l. 
But  w  orsi-  —  ingratitude  and  poi- 
sonous darts, 


Launchtd  by  the  count rj*  he  haA 
served  and  l()Ve«l : 
This,  witli  a  free,  unclouded  spirit 

pure. 
This,   in   the  strengjh  of  silence  to 
endure, 
A  dignity  to  noble  deeds  imparls 
Beyond  tlic  gauds  and  trappings  of 

renown: 
This  is  tlie  hero's  comitlemcut  and 
crown; 
This  missed,  one  struggle  had  Ik'cii 

wanting  still,  — 
One  glorious  triumph  of  the  heroic 
will. 
One  self-approval  in  his  heart  of 
hearts. 


Jane  Taylor. 


TITK  SQUIRE'S  PEW. 

A  SLANTiN<i  my  of  evening  light 
Shoots  tlirongh  tin-  yi-llow  pane; 

It  makes  I  in-  faded  erimson  bright, 
And  gilds  the  fringe  again; 

The  window's  gothic  framework  falls 

In  olili(|ue  shadow  on  the  walls. 

And  since  those  trappings  flrst  were 
new, 

How  many  a  cloudless  day. 
To  rob  the  velvet  of  its  hue. 

Has  come  and  passed  away; 
How  many  a  setting  sun  hath  made 
That  curious  lattice-work  of  shade! 

f'nmdiled  benealh  the  hillock  green 
The  (Minnini;  liand  mitst  Ixi, 

That  carved  tiiis  fretted  door,  1  ween, 
Arorn,  ni\(\  Jlt'itr-ilc-li.'i  ; 

And  now  the  worm  hath  done  her 
part 

In  niimieking  the  chisel's  art. 

In  day«  of  yore  (as  now  we  call) 
When  the  fir-'l  .fntins  wji.s  king. 

The  ri.iirtly  kiiiglit  from  yonder  hall 
HilhiT  his  Iniin  ilid  l»ring: 

All  Heated  piiind  in  order  dui-. 

With  broidered  «uit  and  buekled  shoe. 


On  damask  cushions,  set  In  fringe. 
All  reverently  ihey  knell: 

Prayer-books,  wiili  linizen  ha-*]!  :ind 
hinge. 
In  itii'ient  Knglisb  s))elt, 

K:ieb  liolding  in  a  lily  liand. 

Uespoiixivi'  at  the  priest's  <t»miii;in'l. 

Now,   streaming  down    the   vaidted 
ai.sle. 
The  sunbeam,  long  and  lone, 
Illumes  the  characters  awhile 
of  their  inseriiil ion-stone; 
And    then-,    in     marble     hard     and 

cold, 
Th*^  knight  and  all  his  train  behold. 

()\itstretched  together,  ar»'  expressed 

He  atid  my  lady  fair; 
With  bands  uplifted  on  the  breast, 

In  attitude  of  pniyer  ; 
I.ong-visaged,  eljid  in  armor,  he, — 
Wilii  milled  arm  and  biulice,  she. 

Set  fdiHi  in  ordi-r  <'re  lliey  died. 
The  iiinnerons  offspring  bend; 

Devimily  kneeliuL'  sitfe  by  side, 
As  tlioiigli  they  did  intend 

For  iMwt  omissions  lo  atone. 

By  saying  endh-ss  jirayeis  in  stone. 


TENNYSON. 


67S 


These  mellow  days  are  past  and  dim, 

But  generations  new, 
In  regular  descent  from  him. 

Have  filled  the  stately  pew; 
And  in  the  same  succession  go, 
To  occupy  the  vault  below. 

And  now,  the  polished,  modern  squire 

And  his  gay  train  appear, 
Who  duly  to  the  hall  retire, 

A  season,  every  year,  — 
And  fill  the  seats  with  belle  and  beau, 
As  'twas  so  many  years  ago. 

Perchance,  all  thoughtlessastheytread 
The  hollow  sounding  floor, 

Of  that  dark  house  of  kindred  dead, 
Which  shall,  as  heretofore, 


In  turn,  receive,  to  silent  rest, 
Another,  and  another  guest, — 

The     featlicred     liearse    and     sable 
train, 
In  all  its  wonted  state, 
Shall  wind  along  the  village  lane. 

And  stand  before  the  gate ; 
Brought     many    a    distant    countr} 

through, 
To  join  the  final  rendezvous. 

And  when  the  race  is  swept  away. 

All  to  their  dusty  beds, 
Still  shall  the  mellow  evening  ray 

Shine  gayly  o'er  their  heads; 
^Vhile  other  faces,  fresh  and  new, 
iShall  occupy  the  squire's  pew. 


Alfred  Tennyson. 

COUPLETS  FROM  "LOCKSLSr  HALL." 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his  glowing  hands: 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 


As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 


Comfort  ?  comfort  scorned  of  devils !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 


Not  in  Tain  the  distance  beacons.     F(»rward,  forward  let  us  range, 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day: 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 


574 


TENNYSON. 


[From  In  Memoriam.] 
STtl()y<i  SOX   OF  t!on. 

StroX(j  .Soil  of  (ioil,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  \vf,  thai  have  not  seen  thy 

fac.-, 
Hy  taitli,  an<l  faitli  alone,  embrace, 

Bfiii'viiiii;  wliere  we  caunol  prove; 

Thine  are   these  orbs   of  light  and 
shade; 
Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute, 
Thou   madest  Death;  and   lo,  thy 

foot 

Is  on  ihf  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leav**  us  in  the  dust: 
Thou  madest  man,  he  kiiows  not 

why; 
lie  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 
And  thou  hast  matle  him:  thou  art 
just. 

Thou  seeniesi  human  and  divine. 
The     highest,     holiest     manhood, 

thou: 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not 
how ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them 
thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
Tlii'V  have  t  heir  day  and  <ea.s<'  to  be : 
They  are  but  broken  liuhlsof  thee, 

A  nd  thou,()  Lonl,  art  mon;  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith:  we  cannot  know; 
Kor  knowb'df^e  is  of  things  wt;  see: 
Anil  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from 
thee, 

A  bt-aii)  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 

I.f't   knowledge  grow   frouj  more   to 
more, 
I'.iil  iiiun-  of  revereiiee  in  us  dwell: 
•  Tiial  mind  and  sold  aeeordlnu  well, 

I       May  make  one  music  h.s  l)eft>re, 

Hut  vjutter.      \Vf  are  fools  ami  slight : 
We    jiKM-k    thee    when    W«    do  not 

fear: 
Hilt  bi-li.  iby  foolisli  ones  to  bear; 
S^     llel|)    ibv    \ain    Worlds    to    bear    thy 
^^  ligbt.  1 


Forgive  what  seemed  my  sin  in  mo: 
^\  hat   seemed    my    worth   since    1 

began ; 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed. 

Thy   creature,    whom    1   found   so 
fair, 

I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 
1  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive    these  wild  and  wandering 
cries. 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth: 
Forgive   them   where   they  fail   in 
truth. 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


{From  In  Affmoriam,] 
no  PR  FOR  ALL. 

<  Ml,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  linal  uoal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 

Defects  oif  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood: 

That    nothing   walks,   with    aimless 
feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  bodestroyed, 
Or  east  as  iiibbisii  to  the  void, 
\Vhen  (lod  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete: 

That  not  a  worm  is  eloven  in  vain; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  ill  a  fruitlt-ss  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Heboid  we  know  not  anyfliing: 
I  can  lull  trust  liiat  goixl  >iiall  fall 
,\t  last  —  f.ir-olT  — at  last,  t..  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  ruiis  my  dream:  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  ening  in  the  iiigbl: 
An  infant  eryinu  for  the  light: 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  liviii;,'  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  tlie  ^rave 
Derives  it  lint  from  what  we  havo 

The  like.sl  <  .od  within  the  soul  ? 


TENNYSON. 


575 


Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
'I'liat     Nature     lends      such     evil 

dreams;' 
.So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  1,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  tindiug  that  of  tifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And   falling  with    my   weight    of 

cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to 
God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and 
grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and 

call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 
And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


\_Fi-om  In  Memoriam.\ 
SOUL   TO  SOUL. 

I  SHALL  not  see  thee.     Dare  T  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That   stays  him   from   the   native 
land. 
Where  first  he  walked  when  daspt  in 
clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,   the  Spirit  himself,    may 

come 
Where  all   the   nerve  of  sense   is 
numb 
Spirit  to  spirit,  ghost  to  ghost. 

Oh,    therefore     from    thy     sightless 
range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss. 
Oh,  from  the  distaii<-c  of  the  abyss 

( )f  tenfold  complicated  change, 

Descend .  and  touch,  and  enter:  hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to 
name; 


That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 
My  ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


[_From  In  Metnoriam.'] 

CONDITION  OF  SPIRITUAL 
COMMUNION. 

How  pure  at   heart    and    sound    in 
head. 
With  what  divine  affections  bold, 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought 
would  hold 
An    hour's     communion     with    the 
dead. 

In  vain  slialt  thou,  or  any.  call 
The  sjiirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst 
say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They     haunt     the    silence    of    the 
breast. 
Imagination  calm  and  fair. 
The  niemory  like  a  cloudless  air. 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest : 

lint  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din. 
And  Doubt  beside  the  portal  waits. 
They  can  luit  listt'U  at  the  gates. 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


[From  In  Memoriam.'] 
FAITH  IN  DOUBT. 

Pekim.i:.\t  in  faith,  but  pm-e  in  deeds,. 
At  last  he  beat  bis  music  out. 
There  lives   more  faith  in  honest 
doubt. 

lielicvc  nil',  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fougbi   Ins  <loubts  and  gathered 
strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment 

blind. 
He  faced  the  sin-clres  of  the  mind 
And    laid    liiein:    thas  he   came   a< 
length 


576 


TENNYSON. 


To  find  a  strony;er  faitli  liis  own: 
Aiul  Tower  was  willi  him  in  tlii> 

iiiuht, 
Wiiicli  niakfs  tliodarkiitssaud  tlip 
liglit, 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While   Israel   made   their  gods  of 
i,'«)ld. 

Although  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


[From  In  Memoriam.'X 
TO   A   PlilESI)   IS   HEAVEN. 

Dkai;  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal: 
U  loved  the  most,  when  most  1  feel 

There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher; 

Known  and   unknown:    human,  di- 
vine: 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and 

eye: 
Dear    heavmly   friend  that  eanst 
not  die. 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine, 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to 
I).-: 
Lovf  dceplier,  darklier  nnderstooil: 
IJfhold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  l'ouiI. 

And  mingle  ail  I  In-  wcjild  wiili  Ihcc 

Thy  voiee  is  on  tin-  mlling  air: 
I  lifiir  thee  wlicre  I  In-  waters  run; 
Thou  slandest  in  the  rising  sun. 

And  in  tlie  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  tlioti  then  ?   I  eannot  guess; 

Hut  tiiiMigh  I  seem  in  st4ir  and 
tlower 

To  fee]  thee  some  diffusive  power, 
I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less: 

My  love  involvpfl  the  love  before: 
.My  lo\<-  N  vaster  passion  now; 
ThoULTJi  mixed  with  <;<kI  and    Na- 
ture thou, 

!    ■  ■111  to  love  the*!  more  anil  ukmc. 


Far  off  thou  art.  but  ever  nigh: 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice: 
I  prosper,  eircled  with  thy  voice- 

I  shall  not  lose  thee  though  1  ilie 


[From  In  Memortam.'] 
RING  OUT,    WILD  BELLS. 

Ri.NO  otit,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky 
The  llying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  i-;  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

King  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
King,  hajipy  iiells.  aeross  the  snow: 
The  year  is  gohig,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  In  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  wesi-e  no  more. 
King  out  the  feiul  of  rirli  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Rnig  out  a  slowly  dying  c.iuse. 
And  ancit-nt  form;  of  jiarty  strife: 
King  in  the  nobler  moiles  of  life. 

With  sweater  manners,  purer  laws. 

Kim;  out  the  want,  the  eare,  the  sin, 
'!'he  faithless  coldness  of  the  times: 
King  out,  ring  out  my  mournful 
rhymes, 

Kut  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

King  out  false  pride  in  pl.ace  and 
bloixl. 

The  ci\  ie  slanderand  tlie  flpite. 

King  in  the  love  of  iruili  and  right, 
King  in  the  connnon  lov<>  of  gtMxI. 

Ring  out  old  sbai)es  of  foul  diseiwe: 
lUn','  out  the  narrowing  lustof  ^old' 
Ring  out  the  tboiisaiid  waiN  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousan<l  years  of  ]M>ace. 

Ring  in  flw  valiant  man  and  free, 
Till- larger  heiul.  the  kindli.r  hand 
King  out  the  darkness  of  the  lau<l. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  la  to  be. 


TENNYSON. 


671 


[From  The  Princess.} 
TEAIiS,  IDLE   TEARS. 

Tkahs,  idlo  tears,  1  know  not  what 

they  mean. 
Tears  from  11  le  depth  of  some  divine 

despair 
Rise  in  the  i)eart,  and  gather  to  tlie 

eyes. 
In    looking  on  the    happy  autumn 

fields. 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering 

on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the 

underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over 

one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 

verge : 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark 
summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened 
birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glim- 
mering square; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are 
no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after 

death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  faniiy 

feigned 
On  lips  that  are  forothei-s;  deep  as 

love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all 

regret : 
O  Dealli  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 

aiore. 

\_Froin  The  Princess.] 
FOR  HIS  CHILD'S  SAKE. 

HoMK  theybrouglil  her  warrior  <!ead  : 
She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry: 

A.11  iler  liiairi.-iis.  waliluilg,  s;il;l, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


Then  they  praised  liim,  soft  and  low. 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe : 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

liightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face: 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like    summer    tempest    came    he; 
tears  — 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.'' 

{From  The  Princess.] 
RECOKCILIA  TION. 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  plucked  the  ripest  ears, 
AVe  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
Oh,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the 

child 

We  lost  in  other  years. 
There  above  tlie  little  grave. 
Oh,  there  aijove  the  little  grave. 

We  kissed  again  with  tears. 


[From  The  Princess.] 
BUCrLE  SOXG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
riie    long   liglit    shakes   across  tli( 

lakes 
And   the    wild    cataract  leaps   in 

glory. 
Ulow,  bugle,  blow,  set  tl.e  wild  echoes 

flying, 
Blow,  bugle:  answer,  echoes,  dying, 

dying,  dying. 

Oh,  hark,  oh,  hear!    how  thin   and 

clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  goin^ 

Oh.  sweet  and  far  from  clifT  and  siiu 

The  horns  of  Lllland  faintly  blow 

iu{jl 


678 


TJiKNYSUA. 


Blow,   let  us  hear  the  purple  glens 

ri'plying: 
LJIdw,  bugle:  answer  echoes,  dying, 
dying,  dyuig. 

0  love,  they  dif  in  von  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  liill  or  fifM  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever, 
lilow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

Hying. 
And  answer  eclioes,  answer,  dying, 
dying,  dying. 


^l^rom  The  Princegs.] 
NOW  LIES   THE  EAimi. 

Now  lies   the  Earlii  all  Danae    tt) 
the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  nie. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on, 
and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in 
me. 

New  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweet- 
ness up. 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake: 
tSo   fold    lliysclf,    my    dearest,    thou, 

and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 


{From  The  Prince»».] 

M.tX  A XI)    nUtMAS. 

Foit  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man. 
Hut  diverse:   couM  we  make  her  a-< 

the  man, 
Hweet    love    were  slain:    ids  dean'sl 

bond  is  tlds, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  Ml  dlffen'IK-e. 
Yet  in  th»-  long  years  liker  unist  I  bey 

i;row  : 
The  man  be  nion-  of  woman,  she  of 

man: 
He  (|{Hin   in  sweetness  and   in  moral 

Vh.itibt. 
Nor  loH*'   tlie    wretding    tliews   that 
throw  the  world ; 


She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  chlla 

ward  i-are. 
Nor  lost'  tlie  childlike  in  the  larger 

mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  U)  man, 
Like  i>erfect  nuisic  unto  noble  words; 
And  so  tliese  twain,  upon  the  skirts 

of  Time. 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-sunnncd   in  all 

their  i>owers. 
Dispensing  liarvest.xiwing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent    each  and   reverencing 

each, 
Uisiinct  in  individualities, 
IJul    like  each  Other  even  as  those 

who  love. 


( From  The  Princem.] 
CI!  A  DIE  SUXO. 

SwFKT  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

\\  ind  of  the  western  sea. 
Low.  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rollint;  waters  go. 
Come   from    the    dying    moon,  and 
blow. 

lilow  him  ai^ain  to  me: 
Wliile  my  little  one.  while  my  pretty 
one  sleeps. 

.sleep  anil  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 
I'alln-r  will  come  lo  ihee  soon: 

Uist.  rest,  on  mollier's  brea.st, 
I'allnr  will  come  lo  ihee  soon; 

Father  will  eome  to  his  babe  in  the 
ncM, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
I'mler  Ibe  silver  moon: 

Sleep,  my  lillle  one,  sleei),  my  pretty 
one,  sleii>, 


[From  The  /'riiiri's*.) 
.l.sA'   .I/A    .\«>   M()I:E. 

Ask    me    no   more*  the   moon    m.-iy 
ilraw  till-  sea: 
The  iloiiil  may  stf)op  from  heaven 

and  take  the  xbapi*. 
With  fold  lo  fold,  of  mountain  of 
of  cap<': 
Hut   ()   too   fond,   when  have   1  an 
SW'ICtl  I  bee  ? 

Ask  me  no  more. 


TENNYSON. 


579 


Ask    me    HO    more:     What    answer 
sliouKl  1  y:iv('  ? 
I  love   not  hollow  cheek  or  faded 

eye: 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have 
thee  (lie! 
Ask  me  no  more,   lest  1  should  bid 
thee  live: 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more :  thy  fate  and  mine 
are  sealed : 
1  strove  against  the  stream  and  all 

in  vain: 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the 
maiii : 
So  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I 
yield : 

Ask  me  no  more. 


^  From  The  Miller's  Daughter.^ 
LOVE. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  tlie  debt, 
Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
I(ile  habit  links  us  yet. 
Wliat  is  love  ?  for  we  forget: 
Ah,  no!  no! 


[From  The  Miller's  Daughter.] 
HUSBAND    TO    WIFE. 

Look  through  mine  eyes  witli  thine. 
True  wife, 
Koimd  my  true  heart  tliine  arms 
entwine: 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 
Look  through  my  very  soul  with 
thine! 
I'ntouched  with  any  shade  of  years. 
May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell  I 
They  have  not  slied  a  many  tears. 
Dear  eyes,  since  liist  1  knew  them 
well. 


Yet  tears  they  shed :  they  had  their 
part 
Of    sorrow:    for    when    time    was 
ripe. 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillne.-ss  passed  again, 

And' left  a  want  luiknown  before: 
Although   tlie  loss   that  brought  us 
pain. 
That  loss  but  made  us  love  the 
more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  1  have  found  in  thee: 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who 
wrought 
Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With     blessings     beyond     hope     or 
tlioughl. 
With    blessings  which    no    words 
can  (iud. 

Arise,  and  lei  us  wander  forth, 

To  you  old  mill  across  the  wolds; 
For  look,  the  sun^'t,  south  and  north. 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  idsv  folds, 
Antl     lires     youi-    narrow    casement 
glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below: 
On  the  chalk-bill  llie  li'  urded  grass 

is  dry  and  dewless,  li-t  us  go. 


[From  The  Afil lev's  Daughter.] 
IVHAT   I    WOULD   HE. 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  deai 
That  1  woulil  l)e  the  jewel 

That  treniiiles  at  her  ear: 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  ami  night. 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  giidli' 

AbotU.  her  dainty,  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  l)eat  against  me. 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight 


580 


TLWNYSOK 


And  I  would  bf  the  lurklai-e, 
And  all  day  loni;  to  tall  and  rise 

Ipun  her  balmy  bo.iuni. 

With  her  laugiiti-r  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

1  scarce  should  be  luiclasped  at  night. 


[From  .Uer  I  in  and  f'ii'Un.^ 
SOT  AT  ALL,   O/:  ALL  IK  ALL. 

1 N  I^ove,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love 

l)e  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal 

powers; 
I'nfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in 

all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 

mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The   little  rift  within  the  lover's 

lute 
Or  little  pitted  speek  in  garnered  fruit. 
That  rotting  inwanl,  slowly  uioidiiers 

all. 

It  is   not  worth    the  keeping:  let 

it  go: 
Hut  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer, 

no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 


[Frvm  Maud.] 
OAHDEA'  SOXU. 

(•oMK  into  the  ganlon,  Maud. 

For  llu!  blark  bat.  nighi.  lias  flown. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  JK-re  at  the  gale  alone: 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad, 

.\nd  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  l)ree/,e  of  morning  moves. 
And  tbi|iianet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

HeginniMK  to  faint  in   the  light   that 
(ihe  loves 
On  a  bud  uf  dalTodil  sky, 


To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sini  that 
she  loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  lime,  violin,  Oiissc>on: 
Ail  niglii  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirred 
To  the  tlancers  dancing  in  tiuie; 
Till  a  sileiu-e  fell   with  the  waking 
bird. 
And  a  hush  with  the  setting  Uioou. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  '*  Then?  is  but  one 
With  wiiom   she   has   heart  to  be 

WTien   will    the  dancers    leave    her 
alone  ? 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  jday." 
Now   half   to   the   setting  moori  are 
gone. 
And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low   on   the  .sand   and  loud  on  the 
stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night 
goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
()  young  lord-lover,  what  >lghs  are 
those. 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
Dut   mine,  Imt   mine."  .so  I  swaro  to 
the  rose, 
"  Fore\t'r  and  ever,  mine." 

.\nd   the  soiil  of  the  rose  went   info 
my  blood, 
As  the  musie  ejashed  in  tin-  h.ill; 
.\nd  long  by  the  gard"'!)  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  lie.ini  your  rivulet  tall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadovN  and  oi 
to  the  wood. 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all, 

From  the  meadow  your  «alks  have 
left  so  HWeel 
Thai  whi'iiever  a  March  wind  vighs 
Me  sets  the  jewel-]irinl  of  your  b-ei 

In  \  ioliis  libie  as  your  eyes. 
'I'o  Ihe   uoody  hollows  in  which  we 
meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


TENNYSON, 


581 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  Ions  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 
lake, 

As  tlie  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake, 

Knowing yoiu'  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In    gloss  of    satin  and  glimmer  of 
pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over 
with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 
She  is  coming,  my  life,  ray  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she 
is  near; " 
And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is 
late; "' 
The   larkspur   listens,    "  I   hear,   I 
hear;" 
And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

\Vere  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her,  and  boat, 

\Vere  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed. 
My  dust  would  hear  her,  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead : 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her 
feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


{From  Maud.] 
GO  NOT,  UAl'PY  DAY. 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day. 

Till  the  nuiiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips. 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships, 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  through  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cednr-tree. 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

r.lusli  it  tliiough  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


{From  Guinevere.'] 
THE  NUNS'  SONG. 

Late,   late,   so  late!  and   dark  the 

night  and  chill! 
Late,  late,  so  late!  but  we  can  enter 

still.. 
Too  late,  too  late!   ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

No  light  had  we:  for  that  we  do 

i-epent: 
And   learning  this,   the  bridegroom 

will  relent. 
Too   late,   too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

No    light:   so  late!   and   dark  and 

chill  the  night; 
Oh,   let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the 

light! 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

Have  we  not  heard  the  bride- 
groom is  so  sweet  ? 

Oh,  lei  us  iu.  thouu'u  late,  to  kiss  his 
I'cct : 

No,  no,  loo  lalel  ye  lannot  entel 
now. 


582 


TENNYSON. 


THE    HEATH  OF  THE   OLD    YEAH. 

Fill  knee-<l('ep  lies  tlic  winti'isiiow. 
And   the   winter  winds  are  wearily 

siiiliinjir: 
Toll  ye  lilt'  cliurrh-bell  sad  and  .slow, 
And  tirail  softly  and  speak  low, 
Fdi-  the  old  year  lies  a-dyinfj. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die: 
Yon  ranie  to  us  so  readily. 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
<  >lil  yrar,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still;  he  doth  not  move; 

lit'  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

11. •  iiatli  no  other  life  ainj^e;      |love. 

lie  fiavc  nie  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true- 

And  the  new  year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  mtisl  not  ^o: 
So  long  as  you  have  heen  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  yon  have  seen  with  us. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  fjo- 

lie  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  hrim; 

A  jr»llier  year  we  shall  not  st-e; 

Hut  Ihouyh  his  eyos  are  waxitv^  dim. 

And  tlioui;li  his  foes  sjieak  ill  of  him. 

Ill-  was  a  frii'ud  to  me. 

Old  yar,  you  shall  not  die: 
We  did  so  lau'.:li  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  lo  die  with  you. 
Old  y«'ar,  if  you  nnist  die. 

II''  was  fidl  of  joke  ami  j(>st, 
lint  all  his  merry  ipiips  an*  o'er. 
'i'o  SIC  iiim  die  acro>^  the  waste 
His  son  and  heircloth  riile  po>i-ha.s(e, 
lint  he'll  he  dead  iM'fore. 

Kvei7  one  for  his  own. 

The  niijht  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend. 

And  ihe  new  year,  hiitlie  and  hold, 
my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  lak<'  his  own. 

How  hard  hehrealhes!  over  the  snow 
I   li"  .lid  just   now  the  erowill'.;  eoek. 

Til.   shadows  dicker  to  an.l  fro: 

Till-  erieket  chirps:  the  lii;hl  burns 

low: 
Tls  nearly  twelve  o'clock 

Sliaki-  ban. Is  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  w.'ll  .learly  iiu-  for  you: 

What  is  it  wi'  laii  do  lor  yon  '.' 

bp«'ak  out  befon-  yon  lije. 


His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
.Mack!  our  frieml  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes:  tie  up  his  chin: 
Sli'p  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  Ihelloor,  m\ 
friend. 

And   a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 
friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  »loor. 


.1    WELCOME    TO  AI.EXASnUA. 

Si:a-ki.nus'  daughter  from  over  the 

sea, 

Alexandra! 
Saxon  autl  Norman  and  l>ane  are  we, 
But  all  of  us  Danes  iu.om' welcome 

of  Ihei', 

Alexan<lra! 
Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and 

of  tleet : 
Welcome   her,    thundering  cheer  of 

the  street  ! 
Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and 

sweet. 
Scatter  tbi-  blossom  umler  her  feel! 
IJiM-ak,  happy  laiul.  into  earlier  How 

ers! 
.Make  nnisic,  O  bird,  in  the  new-bud- 
ded l>o\serR! 
l>la/.oii  your  mottoes  of  bli'.ssing  and 

prayi-r! 
Welcome  her.  welcome  her,  all   thai 

i^  oms! 
W.irble,  O  bugle,  and  tnunpel,  blar.! 
Khi'^s,   ihi;ier  out   upon    turr(>ts   and 

towers! 

l-'lames,  on  the  windv  headland  tiarel 
riteryolU'  jubilee,  sleepli  and  spire'. 
Clash,  ve  Ik'IIs,  in  the  nieriv   .Marcl 

air! 
l-'lash,  ye  citie-.  in  rivers  <if  lire! 
Itusli  to  til.'  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 

higher 
Melt   into   the   stars  •  for   the   land'.s 

ilesiie! 
l.'oll  ani  r.ioice,  jnbil.int  voice, 
Uoll  as  a  '.:ioimd-swell  dashed  on  the 

St  ran. I, 
Uoar  as  Hie  sea  when  he  wdci^mes 

lb.-  lalKJ, 


TENNYSON. 


583 


And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's 

desire, 
The  sea-kings'  daughter,  as  happy  as 

fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 

sea  — 
O  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the 

throne, 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us 

your  own. 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt  or  whatever  we  be. 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome 

of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 


LAPY  CLARA    VERB  DE   VERB. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  : 
You    thought    to    break    a  country 
heart 

For   pastime,    ere    you   went   to 
town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  anil  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  earls. 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your 
name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 
Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet 
sake 
A    heart    that     doats    on    truer 
cliarnis. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats  of  arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vero  de  Vere, 

Some     niet'ktT    pupil     you    must 
find 
For  wore  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

1  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how   I  could 
love. 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
You  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head ; 
Nor  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 
Since   I   beheld    young    Laurence 
dead. 
Oh,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies: 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be : 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
When  thus  he  met  his  mother's 
view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind. 
She  spake  some  certain  truths  of 
you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear: 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  yoiu-hall: 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door: 
You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to 
gall.  ' 
You  held  your  course  without   re- 
morse. 
To    make    him    trust  his  modest 
worth, 
And,  last,  yoti  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 
And    slew  him   with    your    noble 
birth. 

Tiixst  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us 
bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

.Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Ilowe'cr  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  i:;ood. 
Kind  hcai'ts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And    simple    faith   than   Norman 
blood. 

I  know  yon,  ( 'lara  Vere  de  Vere. 

You   jiine   among  your  halls  and 
towers: 
Till-  lanunid  light  of  your  proud  eyea 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 


58t 


TENNYSON. 


In    i;luwin?j    health,    with    hoiindh-ss 
wfiiilli. 
lint  sickt-nin;,'  <»f  a  vai,MU'  distasi'. 
Von  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  linn-. 
You  ncftls  uiubl   I'lay  snih  juanks 
as  tla-se. 

flam.  Clara  Vere  de  Vero, 

If  Time  hf  heavy  on  yonr  hands. 
Are  there  no  he^-jars  a  I  yonr  ^ate, 

\or  any  ooor  al)out  yonr  lands? 
l>h!  teach  the  orithan-lioy  to  read. 

Or  teach  Ihe  oiphan-uirl  to  sew. 
I'ray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


■l/.trnE  OF  TIIF.  I.iaiir  RRiaADR. 

Half  a  leain"'.  half  a  leagup, 
Half  a  leai,aie  onward. 
All  in  the\ alley  of  Death 

Kode  the  six  linndred. 
"Forward,  the  Liidil  Ihii^acle! 
( 'harf,'e  for  the  gims!  "  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Itode  the  six  Inuidred. 

•'  Forward,  the  Light  llrigade!" 
\V.i>  there  u  man  di'-m.iycd  '.' 
Not  though  tlic  soldiers  knew 

.Someone  had  hhiiulered: 
Theirs  not  lo  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  t<»  rea'-on  why, 
Thiirs  hut  lo  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Koue  tin-  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  tlu-ni, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Vi'"cyed  and  thiuidered; 
.'-iti)ii>ie<:  at  with  shot  an<l  shell, 
Holdly  tney  rrxlc  and  well. 
Into  llie  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Ilell 

Kode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  idl  their  wihres  hare, 
Kla^lie.!  ,m  iliey  turned  in  air, 
>.i\>i  iil:  ilie  L;imners  there, 
(  h.iiuiiig  'HI  army,  while 
All  the  world  vsoudered: 


Plunged  in  the  hattery-smoke, 
liight  ihroughthe  line  theybroke 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Keeled  from  the  sahre-stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  hack,  but  not, 

Nol  the  six  hunilred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  theni, 
Cannon  luhind  them. 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
.Stonued  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  liero  fell. 
They  Ihat  had  Innghl  so  well 
(  anie  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
liack  from  llie  moiuh  of  Ilell, 
All  that  was  left  of  Ihem. 

Left  of  six  huiulred. 

When  ran  their  glory  fade? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  nuulel 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  uiudel 
Honor  thi-  Light  Brigade! 

Nolile  six  hundred! 


liUKAK,  iniKAK,   nUEAK. 

j  HiiKAK.  break,  break, 

I      <  In  thy  enlil  uray  stones,  OSea! 

I  And   1  would  that    my  tongne  eulild 

j  utter 

I     The  thoughts  that  arise  In  nie. 

f)li,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 
That    he  shouts  with  his  sister  at 
l-lay! 
Oh.  Will  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  lioat  on  ihu 
bay  I 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  (he  hill: 
Hut  oh,  for  the  toui  h  of  ik  vanished 
hand. 
And   the  sruiud   oi   a  voice  that  Li 
still! 

ISreak.  break,  break, 

.\t  the  fool  of  thy  .  racs.  O  Seal 
Ihit  the  t4>nder  grate  ni  a  day  Ihat  is 
dead 

Will  never  couic  back  to  Qie. 


THACKERAY. 


685 


MOVE  EASTWARD,  HAPPY  EARTH.  \     COME  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 


Move   eastward,  happy  earth,  and 
leave 

Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow: 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O  happy  planet, ^eastward  go: 
Till  over  thy  dark  'shoulder  glow. 

Thy  silver-sister  world,  and  rise 

To  glass  herself  in  dewj'  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  rae  with  thee,  lightly  borne. 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light. 

And  move  rae  to  ray  niarriage-niorn. 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


THE  TEARS  OF  HE  A  VEN. 

Heavex  weeps  above  the  earth  all 

night  till  morn. 
In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to 

weep. 
Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 

forlorn 
With    self-Mrought  evil   of   uniuun- 

bered  years. 
And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor 

reap. 
And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 

her  tears 
Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and 

deep, 
And  showering  down  the  glory  of 

lightsome  day, 
Smiles  on  th'e  earth's  worn  brow  to 

win  her  if  she  may. 


Come  not  when  I  am  dead. 
To  lirop  Miy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave, 
To  tranijjhj  I'ound  my  fallen  head. 
And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou 
wouldsl  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the 
plover  cry ; 

But  thou  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy 
crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest 
Wed  whojii  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick 
of  Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me 
where  I  lie: 

Go  by,  go  by. 


CinCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  vil- 
lages [leas. 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival: 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 
wall : 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with 
golden  ease : 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 
church-tower 

Washed  with  still  rains  and  daisy- 
l)iossonied; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and 
bred:  (to  hour. 

fc>o  runs  tlie  roimd  of  life  from  houi 


William  Makepeace  Thackeray, 


AT  THE  CHURCH-GATE. 


A-LTHOCGii  I  enter  not, 
Sfet  round  about  the  spot, 

Oftlimes  I  hover; 
^lul  near  the  sufrccj  gate, 
A'itli  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

jKxpectant  of  her. 


The  minstei^bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout. 

And  noise  and  lunnniing; 
They've  hushed  the  minster-bell, 
Tlie  organ  'gins  to  swell, — 

She's  I'oming, —  coming' 


586 


TIIAXTER. 


My  lady  conifs  at  last, 
Timid  and  sU-pping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  niodist  eyes  downcast; 
She  comes, — slie's  here, —  she's  past; 

May  heaven  go  with  her! 

Kn«'el  undistnrl>ed,  fair  saint. 
Pour  out  your  i)raise  or  plaint 
Meekly  and  duly; 


1  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  ynur  pure  prayer, 
Willi  thoughts  unruly. 

Hut  suffer  me  to  pace 
Hound  the  forhiddeii  place, 

Lingering  a  minute. 
Like  outcast  sjiirit'S  who  wait. 
And  see,  through  lieaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 


Celia  Thaxter. 


FAREWELL. 

The  crimson  sunset  faded  into  gray ; 
Upon  the  nun-murous  sea  the  twi- 
light fell; 
The  last   warm   breath    of    the    de- 
licious day 
Piissed  with  a  mute  farewell. 

Above  my  liead,  in  the  soft  puq)!"' 
sky, 
A  wild  note  sounded  like  a  shrill- 
voiced  bell: 
Three  gulls  met,  wheeled,  aiid  parted 
witli  a  cry 
That  seemed  to  say,  "  Farewell!" 

1  watelied  them;  one  sailed  east,  and 
one  soared  west, 
And  one  went  floating  south;  while 
like  a  knell 
That   mournful   cr^   the  empty   sky 
possessed, 
"  Farewell,  farewell,  farewell!" 

"Farewell!"     I    thf)iiglit,    il    Is    tii. 
earth's  one  speech ; 
All  liinnan  voices  the  sad  chorus 
swell; 
I'homrh  mighty  love  to  heaven's  liigh 
gale  m:iy  reach. 
Yet  nuist  he  say,  "Farewell!" 

The  rolling  world  Is  girdled  witii  the 
sound, 
Perp«'lually  bn-athed  from  all  wlio 
dwell 
CiKin  lis  iNmnui.  for  no  pl.icc  is  foinid 
Where  is  Uot  li.  arl.  "  Kiirewell!" 


"Farewell,  farewell!"  —  from  wave 
to  wave  't  is  tossed, 
Yron\  wind  to  wind:  earth  has  one 
tale  to  tell; 
All    other    sounds    are    dulled    and 
drowned  and  lost 
In  this  one  cry,  "  Farewell! " 


Di^rnxTEyr. 

TiiKiti;  is  no  day  so  dark 
Hut  through  tin-  nuirk  some  ray  of 

hope  may  steal. 
Some  blessi'd  toiicli  from  heaven  that 
we  might    feel, 
If  we  but  chose  to  mark. 

We  shut  the  i)ortals  fast, 
.\nd  turn  the  key  and  let  no  sinishine 

in; 
Yet  to  the  woi-st  despair  that  comes 
through  sin 
God's  light  shall  reach  at  last. 

We  slight  our  daily  joy, 
.Make  nnich  of  our  vexations,  thickly 

set 
Our  path  with  thorns  of  discontent, 
and  fret 
At  otu-  line  goM's  alloy. 

Till  bounteous  heaven  ndght  frown 
At   such    ingratitutle,    and,   turning. 

lay 
On    our    Impatieiue,     liurdeus     liia> 
Miiiild  weigh 
Our  uchiug  shonMi  i  ■.  'lown. 


THAXTER, 


587 


We  shed  too  many  tears, 
And  sigh  too  sore,  and  yield  us  up  to 

woe, 
As  if  God  had  not  planned  the  way 
we  go 
And  counted  out  our  years. 

Can  we  not  be  content, 
And  lift  our  foreheads  from  the  igno- 
ble dus-t 
Of  these  complaining  lives,  and  wait 
with  trust. 
Fulfilling  heaven's  intent  ? 

Must  we  have  wealth  and  power. 
Fame,  beauty,  all  things  ordered  to 

our  mind  ? 
Nay,  all  tliese  things  leave  happiness 
behind ! 
Accept  the  sun  and  shower, 

The  humble  joys  that  bless. 
Appealing  to  indifferent  hearts  and 

cold 
With  delicate  touch,  striving  to  reach 
and  hold 
Our  hidden  consciousness ; 

And  see  how  evei-ywhere 
Love  comforts,  strengthens,   helps, 

and  saves  us  all ; 
What  opportunities  of  good  befall 

To  make  life  sweet  and  fair! 


THE  SUNRISE  NEVER  FAILED  US 
YET. 

Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea 
The  sunset  broods  regretfully ; 
From  the  far  lonely  spaces,  slow 
Withdraws  the  wistful  afterglow. 

So  out  of  life  the  splendor  dies; 
So  darken  all  the  happy  skies; 
So  gathers  twilight,  cold  and  stem; 
But  overhead  the  planets  bura ; 

And  up  the  east  another  day 
Shall  chase  the  bitter  dark  away ; 
What  though  our  eyes  with  tours  be 

wet  ? 
The  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet. 


The  blush  of  dawn  may  yet  restore 
Our  light  and   hope  and  joy  once 

more 
Sad  soul,  take  comfort,  nor  forget 
That  simrise  never  failed  us  yet! 


A  MUSSEL-SHELL. 

Why  art  thou  colored  like  the  even- 
ing sky 

Sorrowing  for  sunset  ?  Lovely  dost 
thou  lie, 

Bared  by  the  washing  of  the  eager 
brine. 

At  the  snow's  motionless  and  wind- 
carved  line. 

Cold  stretch  the  snows,  cold  throng 
the  waves,  the  wind 

Stings  sharp, —  an  icy  fire,  a  touch 
unkind, — 

And  sighs  as  if  with  passion  of  re- 
gret. 

The  while  I  mark  thy  tints  of  violet. 

O  beauty  strange!  O  shape  of  perfect 

grace. 
Whereon    the  lovely  waves  of  color 

trace 
The  history  of  the  years  that  passed 

tliee  by. 
And  touched  thee  with  the  pathos  of 

the  sky! 

The  sea  shall  crush  thee;  yea,  the 
ponderous  wave 

Up  tlie  loose  beach  shall  grind,  and 
scooji  tliy  grave. 

Thou  thought  of  (iod!  What  more 
than  tliou  am  I  ? 

Both  transient  as  the  sad  wind's  pass- 
ing sigh. 


RE  VERIE. 

TiiK  white  reflection  of  the  sloop's 
great  sail 
Sleeps  treiiihling  on  the  tide. 
In  siarlet  trim  her  crew  lean  o'er  tho 
rail. 
Loimgiug  on  either  side. 


588 


THAXTER. 


Pule  blue  and  streaketl  with  pearl  the 
wattTs  lit'. 
And  glitttT  in  tlu'  boat; 
Tb<*   distanrc  i,'atbors  purple  bloom 
where  sky 
And  glimmering  ooast-line  meet. 

From  the  cove's  curving  rim  of  sandy 
gray 
The  ebbinn  tide  hai*  drained, 
Wliert',    inoiirnful,    in    the   dusk    of 
yestenlay 
The  curlew's  voice  complained. 

Half  lost  in  hot  inirai.'f  tlie  sails  afar 
Lie  dreaming,  still  and  white; 

No  wave  breaks,  no  wind  breathes, 
the  peace  to  mar. 
Summer  is  at  its  height. 

How  inany  thousand  summers  thus 
have  shone 
Across  the  oettan  waste. 
Passing  in  swift  succession,  one  by 
one 
IJy  the  lierce  winter  chtised! 

The  gray  rocks  bliLshingsoft  at  dawn 
and  eve, 
The  green  leaves  at  their  feet, 
The  dreaming  sails,  the  crying  birds 
t!;at  grieve, 
Ever  themselves  repeat. 

And  yet  how  dear  and  how  forever 
fair 
Is  Nature's  friendly  face, 
And  how  forever  new  and  sweet  and 
rare 
Each  old  familiar  grace! 

What  mailers  it  that  she  will  sing 
and  smile 

Whiii  we  are  deail  and  still  '.' 
l,et  us  be  ba|»py  in  her  beauty  while 

Oiir  liearls  have  power  to  thrill. 

L4'l    us    rcjoire    in     every    moment 
ltrii;bi. 
(intteful  tiiat  it  is  ours; 
Uask   in   lier  smiles   with   ever  fresh 

ilell-lil. 

Ami  gather  all  tier  llowera; 


For  presently  we    part:    what    wID 
avail 
Her  rosy  tires  of  dawn, 
Her  noontide  pomps,  to  us,  who  fade 
and  fail, 
Dur  hands  from  hers  witbdrawu  ? 


LOyi-:  SHALL  HAlh:    us  ALL. 

O  i'll,(iKlM.  oonies  the  night  so  fast"? 

Let  not  the  dark  thy  heart  appall. 
Though  loom  the  shadows  vague  and 
'vast. 

For  love  shall  save  us  all. 

There  Is  no  hope  but  this  to  see 
Tiiroiigh  tears  that  gather  fast,  and 
fail ; 

Too  great  to  perish  love  must  be, 
Anil  love  shall  save  us  all. 

Have  patiejice  with    our    loss    and 
pain. 
Our    troubled    space    of    days    so 
small; 
We  shall  not  n^ach  our  arras  in  vain, 
For  love  shall  save  us  all. 

O  pilgrim,  but  a  moment  wait, 

And    we   shall    hear   our   darlings 
call 

Beyond  death's  mute  and  awful  gate. 
And  love  shall  save  us  all! 


TO   .1    yioLIS'. 

What  wondrous  power  from  heaven 
upon  I  bee  w  roiight  ? 
What    i>risoiied    Ariel    within   theo 
broods  ■' 
Marvel  of  human  skill  an<I  human 
thought. 
Light    a>  a  dry  leaf  in  the  winter 
w<M)ds! 

Thou    mystic    thing,    all    iM-autiful! 

What  nund 
Coneeived  thee,  what   intelligence 

bei,':in 
And  out  ol  chaos  thy  rare  shape  de- 

siu'Iled, 
Tboii  ijelic.ite  and  perfect  work  of 
man? 


THAXTEE. 


589 


A.cross  my  hands  thou  liest  mute  and 

still; 
'Phoii  wilt  not  breathe  to  me  thy 

secret  fine; 
Thy  matchless  tones  the  eager  air 

shall  thrill 
To    no    entreaty  or  command  of 

mine; 

But  comes  thy  master,  lol  thou  yield- 
est  all : 
Passion  and  pathos,  rapture  and 
despair; 
To  the  soul's    need    thy   searching 
voice  doth  call 
In  language  exquisite  beyond  com- 
pare, 

Till  into  speech  articulate  at  last 
Thou  seem'st  to  break,   and  thy 
charmed  listener  hears 
Thee  tvaking  echoes  of  the  vanished 
past, 
Touching  the  soiu-ce  of  gladness 
and  of  tears ; 

And  with  bowed  head  he  lets  the 
sweet  wave  roll 
Across  him,  swayed  by  that  weird 
power  of  thine, 
-Jid  nnerence  and  wonder  fill  his 
soul 
That  man's  creation  should  be  so 
divine. 


COURAGE. 

Because  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, 
And  will  not  let  the  bitterness  of 
life 
Blind   me  with  burning   tears,   but 
look  beyond 
Its  tumult  and  its  strife; 

Because  I  lift  my  head  above  the 
mist. 
Where    the    sim    shines   and    the 
broad  breezes  blow, 
By   every   ray   anf    every   rain-drop 
kissfHl 
That  God's  love  doth  bestow; 


Think  you  I  find  no  bitterness  at  all? 
No  burden  to  be  borne,  like  Chris- 
tian's pack? 
Think  you  there  are  no  ready  teara 
to  fall 
Because  I  keep  them  back  ? 

Why  should  I  hug  life's  ills  with  cold 
reserve, 
To  curse  myself  and  all  who  love 
me  ?    Nay ! 
A  thousand  times  more  good  than  I 
deserve 
God  gives  me  every  day. 

And  in  each  one  of  these  rebellious 
tears 
Kept  bravely  back,  lie  makes  a 
rainbow  shine ; 
Grateful  I  take  His  slightest  gift,  no 
fears 
Nor  any  doubts  are  mine. 

Dark  skies  must  clear,  and  when  the 
clouds  are  past. 
One  golden  day  redeems  a  weary 
year; 
Patient  I  listen,  sure  that  sweet  at. 
last 
Will  sound  his  voice  of  cheer. 

Then  vex  me  not  with  chiding.     Let 
me  be. 
I  must  be  glad  and  grateful  to  the 
end ; 
I  grudge  you  not  your  cold  and  dark- 
ness,—  me 
The  powers  of  light  befriend. 


IN  KITTERY  (IlUlirnYARD. 

Crushino  the  scarlet  strawberries  in 

the  grass, 
I  kneel  to  read  the  slanting  stone. 

Alas! 
How  sharji  a  sorrow  speaks !   A  hun- 

dred  years 
And  more  have  vanished,  with  their 

smiles  and  tears. 
Since  here  was  laid,  upon  an  April 

(lay. 
Sweet  Mary  Chauiiry  in   the  grave 

away,— 


590 


THAXTKR. 


A  huiulred  years  since  here  her  lover 

stood 
Beside  her  grave  in  such  despairing 

mood, 
And  yet  from  out  the  vanished  past 

I  hear 
His  cry  of  anguish  sounding  deep 

and  clear, 
And  all  my  heart  with  pity  melts,  as 

though 
To-day's  bright  sun  were  looking  on 

his  woe. 
"  Of  such  a  wife,  O  righteous  lu'av- 

en!  bereft, 
What  joy  for  me,  what  joy  oji  earth 

is  left  ? 
Still  from  my  inmost  soul  the  groans 

arise. 
Still  flow  the  sorrows  ceaseless  from 

mine  eyes." 
Alas,   poor    tortured    soul!      I  look 

away 
From  the  dark  stone, —  how  brilliani 

shines  the  day! 
A  low   wall,   over   which   the   roses 

shed 
Their    jM-rfumed    petals,    shuts    the 

((Uiel  dead 
Apart  a  little,  and  the  tiny  stiuare 
Stands   in    tin-   broad   and   laugliiu^ 

field  so  fair. 
And  gay  green  vines  climb  o'er  tin* 

rough  stone  wall. 
And  all  ai)out  the  wild-birds  flit  ami 

<all. 
And  but  a  slone's-throw  southward. 

tin-  blue  sea 
Kolls  sparkling   in  and   sings  ince.s 

santly. 
J.rtvcly   as   any    dream    the    j)eaeffnl 

jilace. 
And  scarcely  changed  since  on  bcr 

genlb^  face 
For  the  last  tune  on  that  sad  April 

day 
He  gazed,  an<l  felt,  for  him,  all  beauty 

lay  jhim 

Hurled    with    her   forever.     Dull    l<» 
L*M)kcd    the    briglit   world    tlirough 

ey»'H  with  tears  so  dim! 
"1  soon  shall  follow  the  same  dreary 

way 
That  leails  and  oiH.-ns  U.>  the  coaiits 

of  day." 


His  oidy  ho|>e!    But  when  slow  time 

had  (lenlt 
Firmly  with  him  and  kindly,  and  he 

■felt 
The  storm  and  stress  of  strong  and 

piercing  pain 
Vii'lding  at   last,  and   he  grew  calm 

again. 
Doubtless    lie   found    another  mate 

before 
He    followed    Mary    to    the    happy 

shore! 
IJut  none  the  less  his  grief  appeals  to 

me 
Who  sit  and  listen  to  the  singing  sea 
This  matchless  summer  day,  beside 

the  stone 
He   made   to   ecJiu   with    his    bitter 

moan. 
And    In    my  eyes  I  feel  the  foolish 

tears 
For  buried  sorrow,  dead  a  hundred 


years 


KHKrHOVKN. 

O    Si>vkiu:h;n    Master!    stem    and 
SpliMidid  power. 
That  <almly  dost    both   time  and 
(leaili  defy; 
I.ofty  and   lone  as  moimtain  peaks 
that  lower. 
I.f-adlng   our  tlioiights    up   to  tlie 
eternal  sky: 
KeejM'r  of   some  divine,   mysterious 
key. 
H.iising   US   far  above  all   human 
care, 
rnlockiu','  awfid  g.ites  of  harmony 
To   lei    heaven's   light  in  on   the 
world's  despair; 
.Smiicr  of   solenui   chords   that  still 
command 
Kchoes  in  souls  that  .suffer  ami  a»- 
l.ire. 
In  the  ^re;il    moincnl  while  we  hold 
thy  bat\d, 
nai>tl/ed    with    |>ain    ami    ra]iture, 
t<'ars  and  lire. 
(Jod    lifts    our    saddeni'd     forehi'.'ids 

from  the  dii<l. 
The  everlasiinu'    <Jod,    in    whom    wu 
truAi! 


THOMSON. 


59v 


THE   SANDPIPER. 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  httle  sandpiper  and  I 
And  fast  I  gatlier,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached 
and  dry 
The  wild  waves  reacli  tlieir  hands 
for  it,  [high, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs 
As  up  and  down  tlie  beach  we  flit, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky ; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand   out    the   white  lighthouses 
high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 


I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful 
cry; 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song. 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery; 
He  lias  no  thought  of  any  wrong, 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye; 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and 
strong. 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 
Wlien  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furi- 
ously ? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright! 
To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou 
fly? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 
The  tempest  rushes  through  the 
sky: 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 
Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I  ? 


James  Thomson. 


[From  The  Seasons.'] 
PURE  AND  IIAI'I'Y  LOVE. 

But  happy  they!  the  happiest  of 

their  kind! 
Whom  gentler  stars  unite,  and  in  one 

fate 
Their    hearts,    tlieir    fortunes,    and 

their  beings  blend. 
'Tis  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human 

laws. 
Unnatural  oft,   and  foreign  to  the 

mind, 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony 

itself. 
Attuning  all  their  passions  into  love; 
^^^lere    Fri(»ndship     full-exerts    her 

softest  power. 
Perfect  esteem  enlivened  by  desire 
Ineffable,  and  sympathy  of  soiU; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will 

preventing  will, 
With     boundless      confidence:      for 

nouglit  but  love 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss 

secure. 


{From  The  Seasons,'] 
THE   TEMPEST. 

Untisual     darkness    broods;     and 

growing,  gains 
The  full  possession  of  the  sky,  sur- 
charged 
With  wrathful  vapor,  from  the  secret 

beds. 
Where  sleep  the  mineral  generations, 

drawn. 
Thence  nitre,  sulphur,  and  the  fiery 

spume 
Of  fat  bitumen,  steaming  on  the  day. 
With     various-tinctured     trains     of 

latent  flame. 
Pollute  the  sky,  and  in  yon  baleful 

cloud, 
A  reddening  gloom,  a  magazine  of 

fate. 
Ferment;  till,  by  the  touch  ethereal 

roused. 
The    dash    of    clouds,    or    irritating 

war 
Of  fighting  winds,  while  ah  is  caluj 

below. 


592 


THOMSON 


rhoy  furious  spring.  A  boding  si- 
lence reicms. 

Dread  tliron-^h  tlie  dun  expanse;  save 
tile  dull  soiuid 

That  from  the  mountain,  previous  to 

the  storm, 
Rolls  o'er  the  muttering  earth,  dis- 
turbs the  flood. 
And  shakes  the  forest-leaf  without  a 

breath. 
Prone,  to  the  lowest  vale,  the  aerial 

tribes 
Descend:    the  tempest-loving  raven 

scarce 
Dares  wing  tlie  dubious  dusk.     In 

rueful  gaze 
The  cattle  stand,  and  on  the  scowling 

iiftivens 
Cast  a  deploring  eye;  by  man  forsook, 
\\Tio  to  the  crowded  cottage  hies  him 

fast. 
Or  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  downward 

cave. 
'Tis    listening    fear,     and    dumb 

amazenieni  all: 
When  to  the  startled  eye  the  sudden 

glance 
Appears  far  south,  eruptive  through 

the  cloud ; 
And  following  slower,  in  explosion 

vast. 
The  thunder  raises  his  tremendous 

voice. 
At  lirst,  heard  solemn  oVr  the  verge 

of  heaven. 
The  tempest  growls;  but  as  it  nearer 

<iimes. 
And   rolls   its  awful  burden  on  the 

wind. 
The  lightnings  Hash  a  larger  curve, 

and  mon> 
The  noise  astounds:  till  overhead  a 

sheet 
C)f   livid    (lame  discloses  wide,  then 

shuts, 
An<l  opens  wider;  shuts  and  opens 

still 
KxpauMive,     wrapping    ether    In    a 

blaz.'. 
F<»IInwMlhe  loosened  aggravated  roar, 
Enlarging.  di-e|M-iiing,  mingling,  peal 

<in  pial 
Crushed  horiiiile,  couvulsiDg  heaven 

and  earth. 


Down  comes  a  deluge  of  sonorous 
hail. 

Or  prone-(ie><cending  rain.  Wide  rent, 
th.'  ■•louils 

Pour  a  w  hole  flood ;  and  yet  its  flame 
un<|uenched, 

The  uni(>ii(|uerable  lightning  stnig- 
gles  through, 

Kjigged  ami  tierce,  or  in  red  whirling 
ball>. 

And  fires  the  moimtains  with  re- 
doubled raue. 


[From  Ttu-  Seasmu.] 
IIAIiVEST-TlME. 

A  sEincxEH  blue. 
With   golden   liglit   enlivened,    wide 

invests 
The  happy  world.     Attempered  suim 

arise. 
Sweet-beamed,     and     shedding    ott 

through  lucid  clouds 
.\    pleasiiii;  <alm:    while   broad   and 

hrown,  l)elow 
Extensive   har\'ests   hang  the  heavy 

head. 
Rich,   silent,  deep,   they  stand;  for 

not  a  gale 
Rolls  its  liglit  Itillows  o'er  the  bend- 
ing plain: 
A  calm  of  plenty!  till  the  niflled  air 
Falls  from   its  i>oise,  and  gives  the 

breeze  to  blow. 
Hent  is  the  flee<'y  mantle  of  the  sky; 
The    clouils   fly   <lifTercut;    and    iho 

sudden  sun 
Hv    fil-^  itTidgent  gilds  the  illumined 

fi.l.l, 
.\nd  black  by  fits  the  shadows  sweep 

along. 
A    gaily-cheijuered    heart-e-xpanding 

view. 
Far  as  the  circling    eye  can  shoot 

around, 
Unbounded  tossing  in  a  flood  of  corn. 
Theac   are    thy    bhissings,  industry  I 

rotigh  i)ower! 
Wliom  labor  still  attt^nds,  and  sweat, 

and  |>ain : 
Yet  the  kind  source  of  everj'gentU 

art. 
And  all  the  soft  civility  of  life. 


TH0M160N. 


593 


[Fmin  The  Seasons.] 
BIBDS,  AND    THEIR  LOVES. 

Whex  first  the  soul  of  love  is  sent 
abroad 

Warm  through  the  vital  air,  and  on 
the  heart 

Harmonious  seizes,  the  gay  troops 
begin, 

In  gallant  thought,  to  plume  the 
painted  wing; 

And  try  again  the  long-forgotten 
strain, 

At  first  faint-warbled.  But  no  sooner 
grows 

The  soft  infusion  prevalent,  and  wide, 

Than,  all  alive,  at  once  their  joy  o'er- 
flows 

In  music  unconfined.  Upsprings  the 
lark, 

Shrill-voiced,  and  loud,  the  messen- 
ger of  mom ; 

Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted 
sings 

Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from 
their  haunts 

Calls  up  the  tuneful  nations.  Every 
copse 

Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 

Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o'er 
the  heads 

Of  the  coy  quiristers  that  lodgewithin. 

Are  prodigal  of  harmony.  The 
thrusli 

And  wood-lark,  o'er  the  kind-con- 
tending throng 

Superior  heard,  run  through  the 
sweetest  length 

Of  noies;  when  listening  Philomela 
<\>igns 

To  let  thcra  joy,  and  purposes,  in 
thought 

Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their 
day. 

The  Ijlackbinl  whistles  from  the 
tlioniy  brake; 

The  nicliow  IjulDinch  answers  from 
the  grove: 

Nor  are  the  linnets,  o'er  the  flower- 
ing furze 

Poured  out  profusely,  silent.  .lolnod 
to  these 

Innuraerous  songsters,  in  the  fresh- 
ening shade 


Of  new-sprung  leaves  their  modula- 
tions mix 
Mellifluous.     Tlie  jay,  the  rook,  the 

daw. 
And    each    harsh    pipe,    discordant 

heard  alone, 
Aid  the  full  concert:  while  the  stock- 
dove breathes 
A  melancholy  murnmr  through  the 

whole. 
'Tis  love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 
This  waste  of  nmsic  is  the  voice  of 

love. 
That  even  to  birds,  and  beasts,  the 

tender  arts 
Of    pleasing,  teaches.      Hence,    the 

glossy  kind 
Try  every  winning  way  inventive  love 
Can  dictate,  and  in  courtship  to  their 

mates 
Pour  forth  their  little  souls.     First, 

wide  around. 
With  distant  awe,  in  airy  rings  they 

rove. 
Endeavoring  by  a  thousand  tricks  to 

catch 
The  cunning,  conscious,  half-averted 

glance 
Of  their  regardless  charmer.     Shoidd 

she  seem 
Softening  the  least  approvance  to  be- 
stow. 
Their  colors  burnish,  and   by  hope 

inspired, 
They  brisk  advance;  then,  on  a  sud 

den  struck, 
Retire    disordered;    then   again   ap 

proach ; 
In  fond  rotation  spread  the  spotted 

wing, 
And  shiver  everj'  feather  with  desire. 


[From  The  Seasons.} 
DEATH  A.yffD   THE  SKOiVS. 

All   winter  drives   along  the  dark 

ened  air: 
In  his  own  loose  revf>lving  fields,  the 

swain 
Disastered   stands;    sees   other  hills 

ascend. 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow;  and  other 

scenes 


5&4 


THOMSON. 


Of  horrid  inospect,  shag  the  trackless 

plain; 
Nor  finds   the  river,  nor  the  forest, 

liid 
Beneath  the  fomiless  wild;  but  wan- 
ders OK 
From  hill   to  dale,   still    more    and 

more  astray; 
Impatient     flouncing     through     the 

drifted  lu'aps. 
Stimg  with  the   thoughts   of   honic; 

the  thoughts  of  liome 
Rush  on  his  m-rvt's,  and   call    their 

vigor  forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.     How  sinks 

his  soul! 
What  black  dcsjiair,  what  horror  fills 

his  heart! 
^Tien    for    the   dusky   spot,    which 

fani-y  feigned 
His  tufted  collage  rising  through  the 

snow. 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  nu<Mle 

waste. 
Far  from  the  track  and  l)lesi  abode 

of  man; 
While    round   him  night,    resistless, 

closes  fast. 
And  every  ti'mpest,  howling  o'er  his 

head,  [wild. 

Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more 
Then   liirong   tin^   busy  shapes   into 

his  mind. 
Of  r-overed  jiils,  uufathomably  dee]>. 
A  dire  descent!  beyond  tliepowc-rof 

frost; 
Of  faithless  bogs;  of  prpci]>iees  liuge, 
Smoothed  up  witli  snow;  and,  wliat 

is  lan<l,  unknown. 
What   water,   of    the   still   unfrozen 

s]iring. 
in  tiie  lo<»c  marsh  or  solitary  lake. 
Where  tin-  fresli  foiuitain  from   the 

bottom  boils. 
These  check   his   fe.irful  steps;   ami 

down  lie  sinks. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  Hhaj)eless 

.irift. 
Thinking  o'er   all    ilw   bilierness  of 

death; 
■Mixed    Mllh   the  lender   anguish  na- 

I lire  s|i<><»ts 
Through    ibe   wrung   bosom   of    llu- 

dying  man, 


His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends 

unseen. 
In  vain   for  him  the  olticious  wife 

prepares 
The   file   fair-blazing,  and  the  vest- 
ment warm; 
In   vain  his  little  children,  peeping 

out 
Into    the    mingling    storm,   demand 

their  sire, 
With    tears    of    artless    innocence. 

Alas! 
Nor  wife,  nor  children  more  shall  he 

behoM, 
Nor  friends,   nor  sacred  home.     On 

every  ni'rve 
The  deailly   winter  seizes;   shuts  up 

sense; 
Ami,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping 

cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows,  a  stiffened 

corse. 
Strelcheil  out.  and  bleaching  in  the 

northern  blast. 


[From  Liberty.'] 
IXDEI'ESUEKCE. 

IIaii.!  Independence,  hail!  Ileav- 

•'u's  next  best  gift. 
To    that    of    life    and    an  immortal 

sold ! 
The  life  of  life!  that  to  the  baiKjUei 

high 
And    sober    meal  gives  taste;  to  the 

bowed  roof 
Fair-<lreame  I  rcpos«>.  and  to  the  cot- 

taiie  charms. 


I  Fmiii  l.ttn  rlij.'] 

A   STATES   SEED  OF   VIRTUE. 

....  N'liniK.!  withou*  thee, 
TbiMc  \,s  no  niliiig  eye,  no  .lerve,  in 

slates; 
War  has    no   vigor,  and    no  safety, 

jM'a<'«'; 
YVon  Ju.stire  wan)s  to  party,  laws  oj)- 

press. 
WUle   through  the   land    their  weak 

protection  fails. 
First    broke    the   balance,    and   tln'u 

Hoorned  the  swonl. 


TUOMSON. 


59a 


{From  Liberty,] 
THE  ZEAL   OF  PERSECUTION. 

MoTUEB    of    tortures!    persecuting 

Zeal, 
High  flashing  in  her  hand  the  ready 

torch, 
Or   poniard    bathed  in  unbelieving 

blood ; 
(Jell's  fiercest  fiend!  of  saintly  brow 

demure, 
Assuming  a  celestial  seraph's  name. 
While  she  beneath  the  blasphemous 

pretence 
Of    pleasing    Parent    Heaven,    the 

Source  of  Love, 
Has  wrought    more    horrors,    more 

detested  deeds, 
Than  all  the  rest  combined ! 


{From  Liberty.'] 

THE  APOLLO,   AND    VENUS   OF 
MEDICI. 


All  conquest-flushed,  from  pros- 
trate Python,  came 

The  quivered  god.  In  gi-aceful  act 
he  stands. 

His  arm  extended  with  the  slackened 
l)ow ; 

Light  flows  his  easy  robe,  and  fair   ^  quicker  sense  of  joy;  as  breezes 


Vain  conscious  beauty,  a  dissembled 

sense 
Of  modest  shame,  and  slippery  looks 

of  love. 
The  gazer  grows  enamoured,  and  th( 

stone. 
As  if  exulting  in  its  conquest,  smiles. 
So  turned  each  limb,  so  swelled  with 

softening  art. 
That    the    deluded  eye  the  marble 

doubts. 


{Frcm,  The  Castle  of  Indolence.] 
REPOSE. 

What,  what  is  virtue,  but  repose  ot 

mind, 
A  pure  ethereal  calm,  that  knows  no 

stonn ; 
Above  the  reach  of  wild  ambition's 

wind, 
Above  those  passions  that  this  world 

deform. 
And  torture  man,  a  proud  malignant 

wonii? 
But  here,  instead,  soft  gales  of  pas- 
sion play, 
And  gently  stir  the  heart,  thereby  to 

form 


displays 


stray 


A  manly  softened  form.     The  bloom  I  Across  the  enlivened  skies,  and  make 


of  gods 

Seems  youthful  o'er  the  beardless 
olieek  to  wave: 

His  features  yet,  heroic  ardor  warms; 

And  sweet  subsiding  to  a  native 
smile. 

Mixed  with  the  joy  elating  conquest 
gives, 

A  scattered  frown  exalts  his  match- 
less air. 

The  (^iicen  of  Love  arose,  as  from 

the  deep 
Sli(i  sprung  in  all  the  melting  pomp 

of  chaniis. 
Bashful   slie   bends,  her  well-taught 

look  aside 
Turns   in   enchanting    guise,   where 

dubious  mix 


them  still  more  gay. 

The  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  re- 
pose: 
They  hate  to  mingle  in  the    filthy 

fray. 
Where  the  soul  sours,  and  gradual 

rancor  grows, 
Embittered  more  from  peevish  day  to 

day. 
E'en  tliose  whom  fanu'  has  li;nt  Iut 

fairest  ray. 
The  most  renowned  of  worthy  wights 

of  yore, 
From    a    base    world    at    last    have 

stolen  away: 
So  Scipio,  to  tiie  soft  Cumiean  shore 
Retirini,',  tiisled   joy  he  never  kncvi 

before. 


69C 


THOMSON. 


[From  The  Cattle  of  Inilolence.] 
THE  FOLLY   OF  HOAIUHSO. 

Oh.  !j;rievous  folly!  to  heap  up  estate, 
Losing  the  days  you  see  beneath  the 

siui; 
When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelent- 
ing fatf, 
And  gives  the  untasted  portion  you 

have  won 
Willi  ruthless  toil,  and  many  a  wretch 

undone, 
To   those   who   mock  you,   gone  to 

Pluto's  reign, 
There  witii  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and 

shadows  dun : 
But  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain. 
To  toil  for  what  you  here  untoiling 

may  obtain. 


[Ftvm  The  Castle  of  liuMencc] 
EXCESS   TO  BE  AVOIDED. 

But  not  e'en  pleasure  to  excess  is 

good : 
What   most   olatos,    then   sinks   the 

soul  as  low: 
When  springtide  joy  pours  in  with 

copious  Hood, 
The  higher  still  the  exulting  billows 

flow, 
Tilt'  flirt lier  back  again  they  flagging 

And  leave  us  grovelling  on  the  dreary 
shore. 


The   wooiis    and    lawns,    by    living 

stream,  at  eve; 
Let  lu-alth  my  nerves  and  tiner  fibres 

Ijraee, 
And  1  their  toys  to  the  great  children 

leave: 
Of  faney,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can 

me  bereave. 


[Fnm  The  Caalle  nf  Irulolencc] 
NATVItES  JOY  ISALlKNAIiLE. 

I  CAUK  not.  Fortune,  what  you   \\u- 

deny: 
Youamnol  rob  me  of  free  Nattur'.n 

gm<e; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  llii' 

sky. 
Thr<;ugli    which    .Aurora    shows   Inr 

brigiilciiing  face; 
You  cannot  bur  my  constant  feet  to 

trace 


[From  Thf  Castle  of  Indolence.'] 

THE  STATE   OF   THE    U'O/ILD  HAD 
.MEX   LIVED  AT  EASE. 

11ai>    unambitious   mortals   minded 

nought. 
But  in  l<i(»c  joy  their  lime  to  wear 

away; 
Had  they  ahme  the  lap  of  dalliance 

sought, 
rieascd  on  h(>r  pillow  their  dull  heads 

to  lay, 
llude   nature's    state   had   been    our 

state  to-day; 
No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had 

ra  istnl. 
No   arts   had   made  us  opulent  and 

gay : 
\\  ith  bniiiicr  brutes  the  human  race 

had  gnized; 
None  c'lr  bad  soar'il  to  fani<*,  none 

honored  been,  none  praised. 

(Jreat  Homer's  song  had  never  fired 

the  breiusl 
To     thirst     of     glory,     and     heroic 

.le<-ds; 
Sweet   .M;iru's  nuts(',  sMiik   in   iii'4lori 

oils  rest. 
Mad   siletii    slept    aniitl    the    Mineiaii 

reeds: 
The   wi:-   of   modem   time   bad   lold 

I  heir  beads. 
The  niniikisli  legends  been  their  only 

strains; 
Our  Mill  oil's  Kden  luul  lain  wrapt  in 

w Is, 

OiirSbike'.peare strolled  and  laughed 

will)  Warwick  swains, 
Ne  had  my  master  SjM'nser  chanu'd 

his  Miilla's  plains. 


THOMSON. 


597 


{From  The  Cattle  C)f  Indolence.'] 

HEALTH  NECESSARY    TO    HAPPY 
LIFE. 

Ah  I  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of 

Heaven, 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go 

amiss? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be 

given? 
Health    is    the    vital    principle    of 

bUss, 
And  exercise  of  health.     In  proof  of 

this, 
Behold  the  wretch,  who  slugs  his  life 

away, 
Soon    swallowed    in    disease's    sad 

abyss ; 
While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or 

manly  play, 
As  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought 

as  clear  as  day. 

Oh,  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joys 

of  health ! 
Unclogg'd  the  body,  uncbscured  the 

mind: 
The  morning  rises  gay,  with  pleasing 

stealth, 
The  teiniH'nite  evening  falls  serene 

and  kind. 
In  healtli  the  wiser  brutes  true  glad- 
ness find: 
See!  how  the  yoimgllngs  frisk  along 

the  meads, 
As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the 

balmy  wind ; 
Rampant  witli  life,  their  joy  all  joy 

exceeds; 
Yet  what  but  hlgli-strung  health  this 

dancing  pleasaunce  breeds? 


CONTENTMENT. 

If   those,    who   live  in   shepherd's 
bower. 
Press  not  the  rich  and  stately  bed  : 
The   new-mown   hay  and   bn-athing 
flower 
A    softer    couch    beneath     thoui 
spread. 


If  those,  who  sit  at  shepherd's  board. 

Soothe  not  their  taste  by  wanton 
art; 
They  take  what  Nature's  gifts  afford. 

And  take  it  with  a  cheerful  heart. 

If    those  who  drain  the  shepherd's 
bowl, 
No  high  and  sparkling  wines  can 
boast, 
With  wholesome  cups  they  cheer  the 
soul. 
And  crown  them  with  the  village 
toast. 

If  those  who  join  in  shepherd's  sport, 
Gay  dancing  on  the  daisied  ground, 

Have  not  the  splendor  of  a  court : 
Yet  love  adorns  the  merry  round. 


RULE,  BRITANNIA! 

When    Britain    first,    at    Heaven's 
command, 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  cliarter  of  the  land. 
And    guardian    angels    sung    this 
strain , 
Kule,    Britannia,    rule    the 

waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations,  not  so  blessed  as  thee, 
Must,   in    their    turns,  to  tyrants 
fall , 
While  thou  slialt  flourish  great  and 
free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Ilule,  etc. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 
More   dreadful  from  each  foreign 
stroke; 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,  etc. 

Thee    haughty    tyrants    ne'er    shall 
tame: 
All    tlieir  attempts  to  bend   tho« 
ilowu 


d98 


llLTOm. 


Will  but  iirousi'  thy  generous  fl;ini<*, 
But  work  their  woe,  ami   tliy  re- 
nown. 
Kule,  etc. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rtu-al  reign , 
Tiiy  cities    shall   with    commerce 
shine 
All  thiui'  shall  be  the  subject  main: 
And  everv  shore  it  circles  tliiue. 
Kule,  etc. 


The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  til  thy  happy  eoast  repair: 
lilesseil    isle!  with  matchless  be;iuty 
crowned, 
And    manly    hearts    to   guanl  tho 
fair: 

liule,     Britannia     rule     the 

waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


Theodore  Tiltoim. 


{_Ftom  Thou,  and  1.] 
LOVE  ly  AGE. 

FoH  us.  the  ahnond-tree 

Doth  nourish  now: 

Its  whitest  bloom  is  on  our  brow. 

Bet  others  triumph  as  they  may 

And  wear  tln-ir  garlands  gay 

Of  olive,  oak,  or  bay: 

Our  crown  of  glory  is,  Instead, 

The  hoary  head. 

Oiu"  threescore  years  and  ten. 
That  measure  life  to  mortal  men. 
Have  lingered  lo  a  longer  length 
By  rrasoii  of  our  strength; 
Yet.  like  a  tale  that  hath  iieen  told. 
They  all   have  pa.ssed,  and  now,  be- 
hold! 
We  verily  are  old ;  — 

Yea.oM  like  Abraham,  when  he  went, 

With  hia<l  down  bent, 

AiKJ  mantle  rriil. 

In  ilole  for  liiT  who  lay  in  death, 

An. I  to  the  .Sons  of  H."-th 

TIk'  silver  shckrls  gave 

I''  jr  .Mainrc's  gloomy  cave, 

'I  <)  be  her  gnive;  — 

Or.  older  still,  like  bitn 
Wlio,  fcfble  not  of  limb. 
With  (•y<"s  not  dim, 
Up<-linibed.  with  slafT  in  band. 
To  wb.r.'  .Nrount  .N.bo  cleft  tin;  sky. 
And   looki-d   uiid  uuw  the  Bromi-sed 
Land 


(Forbidden  him  from  on  high) 
'i'ill,  with  an  unrecorded  cry, 
lie  laid  hint  down  to  die. 

So  too,  for  us,  the  end  is  nigh. 
Our  mortal  race  is  nearly  run; 
Our  earllily  toil  is  nearly  done! 
Ah.  thou  and  1. 

Who  in  the  irrave  so  soon  shall  He, 
Have  litlli-  time  to  see  tlie  siui  — 
ISo  little  it  is  ncjirly  none! 

What  then  ? 

Amen ! 

All  bail,  my  love,  good  cheerl 

Keep  iiack  tliy  unshed  tear! 

Not  thou  nor  I 

Shall  mourn  or  .sigh. 

Nay  now    we  twain  — 

( tjii  man,  old  wife. 

The  few  days  tliat  remain  — 

Let  usnuike  miMiy —  let  us  laugh!  — 

I-'or  now  at  li-nu'tb  we  (piaff 

TIk'  last,  bfst  wiui'  of  lif«>. — 

The  very  last  — tlie  vrry  Iwat, 

Till'  doubli"  cup  of  love  and  rest. 

What   though    the    groaning    world 

drclarc 
That  life  is  lint  a  load  of  eare  ? — 
A  burden  wiarisonn-  to  b«ar  ?  — 
That  as  \\c  jonrm  y  down  the  years, 
The  path  is  throncil  a  vale  of  tears  ?— 
Vet  we  wlio  biivi'  the  burden  borne, 
And  lra\<lli-d  until  lraM'1-uorn, 
Borgi'l  till-  weight  upon  the  back, 
Foriiel  the  long  and  weary  truck, 


TIL  TON. 


698 


And  sit  remembering  here  to-day 
How  we  were  children  at  oiu*  play :  — 

And  half  in  doze,  at  idle  ease, 
Before  the  heartli-fire's  dying  brands, 
With  elbows  on  our  trembling  knees. 
With    chin    between    our    wrinkled 

hands, 
We  sail  u  uiavigable  seas,  — 
We  roam  impenetrable  lands,  — 
We  leap  from  cUiye  to  clime,  — 
We  conquer  space  and  time. 

And,  howsoever  strange  it  seems, 
The  dearest  of  our  drowsy  dreams 
Is  of  that  billow-beaten  shore 
Where,  in  our  childish  days  of  yore, 
We  piled  the  salty  sands 
Into  a  palace  that  still  stands!  — 
Not  where  it  first  arose, 
Not  where  the  wild  wind  blows, 
Not  by  the  ocean's  roar, — 
(For,  long  ago,  those  turrets  fell 
Beneath  that  billowy  swell), — 
But,  down  within  the  heart's  deep 

core. 
Our  tumbled  tower  we  oft  restore 
And  ever  build  it  o'er  and  o'er! 

We  have  one  palace  more,  — 

Not  made  with  hands,  — 

Nor  have  our  feet  yet  entered  at  its 

door! 
It  lieth  not  behind  us,  but  before  I 

Dear  love,  our  pilgrimage  is  thither 

trnding. 
Ajid  there  shall  have  its  ending  i 


Ah,  though  the  rapturous  vision 
Allures  us  to  a  Land  Elysian, 
Yet  aged  are  our  feet,  and  slow, 
And  not  in  haste  to  go. 

Life  still  hath  many  joys  to  give, 
Whereof  the  sweetest  is  —  to  live. 

Tlien  fear  we  death  ?    Not  so  I 
Or  do  we  tremble  ?    No ! 
Nor  do  we  even  grieve! 
And  yet  a  gentle  sigh  we  heave. 
Ami  unto  llini  who  fixes  fate,  — 
Without  whose  sovereign  leave. 


Down-whispered  from  on  high, 
Not  even  the  daisy  dares  to  die,— 
We,  jointly,  thou  and  I, 
Implore  a  little  longer  date,  — 
A  little  term  of  kind  reprieve,  — 
A  little  lease  till  by  and  by! 

May  it  be  Heaven's  decree, — 

Here,  now,  to  thee  and  me,  — 

That,  for  a  season  still, 

The  eye  shall  not  grow  dim; 

That,  for  a  few  more  days. 

The  ear  cease  not  to  hear  the  hymn 

Which    the    tongue    utters    to    His 

praise; 
That,  for  a  little  while, 
The  heart  faint  not,  nor  fail; 
For  even  the  w  intry  sun  is  bright, 
And  cheering  to  our  aged  sight; 
Yea,  though  the  frosts  prevail. 
Yet  even  the  icy  aii-, 
The  frozen  plain,  the  leafless  wood 
Still  keep   the  earth   as  fresh    and 

fair 
As  when  from  Heaven,  He  called  it 

good! 

O  final  Summoner  of  the  soul  I 
Grant,  of  thy  pitying  grace. 
That,  for  a  little  longer  space. 
The  jiitclicr  at  tlie  fountain's  rim 
Be    shattered    not,    but    still    kept 

whole,  — 
Still  overflowing  at  the  brim! 
If  but  a  year,  if  but  a  day. 
Thy  lifted  hand,  O  stay! 
Loose  Thou  not  yet,  O  Lord, 
The  silver  cord ! 
Break    Thou    not    yet    the   golden 

bowl! 


[From  Thou  and  I.] 

UNDER   THE  .SOD. 

"Tiiouand  I!" 
The  voice  no  longer  said; 
But  two  white  stones,  instead. 
Above  the  twain,  long  dead, 
Still  utter,  each  to  each. 
The  sMine  familiar  speech, 
"Thou  and  I!"-  - 


600 


TIL  TON. 


Not  spoken  to  the  passer-by, 
Hut  just  as  if,  beneath  tlie  grass, 
Deep  under  foot  of  all  who  i)ass, 
The  sleeping  dust  should  wake  to  say, 
Each  to  its  fellow-clay, 
Each  in  the  same  old  way, 
"Thou  and  1!" 

And  each  to  either  should  reply,  — 

(Tomb  murmuring  unto  tomb, 

Stone  answering  unto  stone, 

Yet  not  with  sound  of  liimian  moan. 

Nor  breath  of  mortal  sigh, 

But  voiceless  as    the    dead's   dumb 

cr)-. )  — 
"Thouan<l  I!" 

"  The  spirit  and  the  body  part, 
Yet  love  abideth,  heart  to  heart. 

"  O  silent  comrade  of  ray  rest. 
With  hands  here  crossed   uiwn   thy 

breast, 
I  know  thei"  who  thou  art! 

(  >  IM.lllile  itroW. 
Here  i>illowed  next  to  mine, 
1  kni>w  till'  sold  divine 
That  tenanted  thy  shrine! 

"  For,  though  above  us,  green  and 
high. 
The  yew-trees  grow. 
And  chunbyard  ravens  fly, 
An<l  mourners  come  and  go, 
Yet  thou  and  I, 

Who  dust  to  dust  lie  here  below. 
Still  one  another  know! 

"  Yea,  thee  I  know  —  It  still  is  thou; 

And  me  thou  know'st — it  still  is  I; 

Tnie  lovers  once,  true  lovers  now!  — 

The  same  old  vow. 

Thi^  same  old  thrill. 

The  same  old  love  between  us  still! 

"  The  gloomy  grave  hath  frosts  that 

kill, 
liul   love   is   (hilled    not    with   their 

chill. 

"  Ix)Ve'H  fl.lllie  — 

('onsuiiiing.  uneonsiimed  — 

In   briMsts   Dial   breathe —  In  hearts 

entoml>ed  — 

Is  fetl  by  life  an. I  .1.  ill.  the  sumcl 


"  Love's  si)ark 

Is  brightest  when  love's  house  is  dark! 

"  Love's  shroud  — 

That  wraps  its  bosom  round  — 

Must  criuiilile  in  the  cliarnel  i,'routid. 

Till  all  the  long  white  wii.>Uug-sheet 

Shall  chop  totlust  from  beail  to  feef 

IJiU  love's  strong  cord, 

The  eternal  tie, 

'i'lie  immortal  bond  that  binds 

Love's  twain  immorfal  minds;  — 

This  silken  knot 

Shall  never  rot  — 

Nor  moulder  in  themoultly  mound  — 

Nor  mildew  —  nor  decay  — 

Nor  fall  ai>art  — nor  drop  away  — 

Nor  ever  \>o  unbound  I 

"  Love's  dust. 

Whatever  grave  it  fill, 

Tlu)iigh  hiuied  deeji,  is  deathless  still'. 

Love  hath  no  deatli,  and  cannot  die! 

This  love  is  ours,  as  here  we  lie,  — 

Thou  and  1!" 


77//;   FOl'li   SHASOSS. 

In  the  Italmy  \\>r\\  weather. 

My  love,  you  know. 

When  till'  corn  beu'an  to  grow. 
What  walks  we  took  together, 
What  sighs  we  iireatluMi  together. 
What  vous  we  pledgetl  logellier. 

In  the  days  of  long  ago! 

In  the  golden  summer  weather, 

M>  love,  you  know. 

When  the  mowers  went  to  mow 
What  home  we  built  together. 
What  babes  W(>  watehed  together. 
What  plans  we  nhinned  together. 

While  the  skies  were  all  aglow! 


In  the  rainv  autiunn  weather. 

My  love,  you  know, 

When  the  winds  began  to  blow. 
What  le.irs  we  «hed  touelhi-r, 
Whai  mound'*  we  heajied  together, 
W  bal   liojies  we  Io.hI  l<»i;i|lier, 

Wh.ii  «.•  |.i.|  our  darlings  low  I 


TIL  TON. 


601 


In  the  wild  and  wintry  weather, 

My  love,  you  know. 

With    our    heads    as    white    as 
snow, 
What  prayers  we  pray  together, 
What  fears  we  share  together, 
What  Heaven  we  seek  together, 

For  our  time  has  come  to  go ! 


SIR  MARMADUKE'S  MUSINGS. 

I  WON  a  noble  fame; 

But,  with  a  sudden  frown. 
The  people  snatched  my  crown. 
And,  in  the  mire,  trod  down 

My  lofty  name. 

I  bore  a  boimteous  purse ; 
And  beggars  by  the  way 
Then  blessed  me,  day  by  day; 
But  I,  grown  poor  as  they, 

Have  now  their  curse. 

I  gained  what  men  call  friends ; 
But  now  their  love  is  hate. 
And  I  have  learned,  too  late. 
How  mated  minds  unmate. 

And  friendship  ends. 

I  clasped  a  woman's  breast, — 
As  if  her  heart,  I  knew. 
Or  fancied,  would  be  true, — 
Who  proved,  alasl  she  too! 

False  like  the  rest. 

I  now  am  all  bereft, — 

As  when  some  tower  doth  fall, 
With  battlement,  and  wall, 
And  gate,  and  bridge,  and  all,— 

And  nothing  left. 

But  I  accoimt  it  worth 

All  pangs  of  fair  hopes  crossed  - 
All  loves  and  honors  lost. — 
To  gain  the  heavens,  at  cost 

Of  losing  earth. 

So,  lest  I  be  inclined 

To  render  ill  for  ill, — 
Henceforth  in  me  instil, 
O  God,  a  sweet  good  will 

To  all  mankind. 


RECOMPENSE. 

The  Temple  of  the  Lord  stood  open 
wide. 

And  worshippers  went  up  from  many 
lands, 

AMio,  kneeling  at  the  altar,  side  by 
side. 

Made  votive  offerings  with  uplifted 
hands. 

Their  gifts  were  gold,  and  frankin- 
cense, and  myrrh. 

Then,  with  a  lustrous  gleam  and  rap- 
turous stir. 

While  all  the  people  trembled  and 
turned  pale. 

There  dew  an  angel  to  the  altar-rail. 

Who,  with  anointed  eyes,  keen  to 
discern. 

Gazed,  noting  all  the  kncelers,  who 
they  were, 

And  what  was  each  one's  tribute  to 
the  Lord, — 

And,  gift  for  gift,  with  sudden,  swift 
return, 

Bestowed  on  every  suppliant  his  re- 
ward. 

O  mocking  recompense!  To  one,  a 
spear ! 

To  many,  each  a  thorn!  To  some  a 
nail! 

To  all,  a  cross!  But  unto  none  a 
crown ! 

At  last,  they  saw  the  angel  disappear. 
Then,  as  their  timid  hearts  shook  otf 

their  fear, 
Some  rose  in  anger,  flung  their  treas- 
ures down. 
And  cried,  "  Such  gifts  from  Heaven 

as  tiiese,  we  spurn! 
They  are  too  cruel,  and  too  keen  to 

bear! 
They  are  too  grievous  for  a  human 

breast ! 
Heaven  sends  us  heartache,  misery, 

and  despair! 
We  knelt  for  blessing,  but  we  rise  un- 

blest! 
If  Heaven  so  mock  us,  we  will  cease 

to  pray!"' 
They  left   the  altar,  and   they  went 

their  way; 
Rut    their   blasplieining   hearts  were 

then  self-torn 


602 


TRENCH. 


Far  more  by  pride,  and  hcavennlefy- 

ing  scorn. 
Than  pierced  before  by  nail,  or  spear, 

or  thorn  I 

A  few  (not  many!)  with  their  brows 

down  bent. 
Gave  tlianks  fur  each  sharp  gift  that 

Heaven  had  sent, — 
Anil  each  embraced  his  separate  pain 

and  sting. 
As  if  it  were  some  sweet  and  pleasant 

thing, — 
And  each  Jiis  cross,  with  joyful  tears, 

did  take, 
To  bear  it  for  llie  great  Cross-bearer's 

sake. 

Tlien  lo!  as  from  the  Temple  forth 
they  went, 

Tlieir  i)li'cding  bosoms,  though  with 
antrnisii  rent. 

Had,  spite  of  all  their  pain!  —  a  sweet 
content; 

For  on  each  brow,  though  not  to  mor- 
tal sight. 

The  vanished  angel  lift  a  crown  of 
light! 


THE    TWO  I.AnnEliS. 

Bkxightki)     in     my    pilgrimage, — 
alone. — 
And    footsore  —  (for  the  path    to 
heaven  grew  steep,) — 
I  looked  for.lacob's  pillow  of  a  stone, 
in  hope  of  .lacob's  vision  In  my 
sleep. 
Then,  in  my  dream,  whereof  I  quake 
to  tell,— 
Not  up  from  earth  to  heaven,  but, 
oil,  sad  sight ! 
The  ladd(>r  was  let  down  from  earth 
to  heli:— 
^Nhereon.  ascending  from  the  deep 

abyss. 
Came  fiery  spirits  who.  witli  dismal 
hiss. 
Made  woeful  clamor  of  their  lost  de- 
light. 
And  stung  my  eyelids  open,  till,  in 

fright, 
I  caught  my  staff,  and  at  the  dead  of 
night, 
I,  who  towanl    heaven  and   peace 

had  hailed  so. 
Was  ilcfl  of  foot  to  flee  from  hell 
and  woe! 


Richard  Chenevix  Trench. 


TJinEF.    SOS  SETS   ON   rRAYEIi. 

I,<U{|>.  what  a  change  within  us  one 

.short  hour 
S|»ent  in  Thy  presence  will  prevail  lo 

make.  — 
What  heavy  burdens  fi  on»  ourbosoms 

take. 
What   parched    grounds   refresh,   as 

with  a  sliower! 
We  kneel,  and  all  around  us  .seelns  to 

lower; 
Wi-  rise,  and  all,  the  distant  and  the 

uwir, 
Slanil**  forth  in  siuiny  outline,  bnive 

ami  clear; 
We  kneel  bow  weak,  we  rise  Imw  fidl 

of    |i<.We|  I 

Wliy,  tlienfoie,  hhoiild   we  do   our- 
ttulven  Ihiii  wrouj;, 


Or  others  —  that  we  are  not  always 
strong; 

That  we  are  ever  overborne  with 
care ; 

That  we  shoidd  ever  weak  or  heart- 
less be. 

Anxious  or  troubled,  when  with  us  is 
prayer. 

And  joy.  and  strength,  and  courage, 
are  with  Tiiee  '.' 


A  (lAiutKN  so  well   watered  l)efore 

morn 
Is  lidtlv  M|>.  that  not  the  swart  stm'a 

iila/.e, 

Down  beating  with  immitlgated  rays, 
.Nor  ariil  wlncls  from  scorching  places 
borne, 


TRENCK 


(50^ 


Shall  quite  prevail  to  make  it  bare 

and  shorn 
Of  its  green  beauty  —  shall  not  quite 

prevail 
That  all  its  morning  freshness  shall 

exhale, 
Till  evening  and  the  evening  dews 

return  — 
A  blessing  such  as  this  oiu-  hearts 

juiglit  reap, 
The  freshness  of    the  garden  they 

might  share. 
Through    the  long  day  a  heavenly 

freshness  keep. 
If,  knowing  how  the  day  and  the 

day's  glare 
Must   beat    upon   them,  we   would 

largely  steep 
And  water  them  betimes  with  dews 

of  prayer. 


When  hearts  are  full  of  yearning 

tenderness, 
For  the  loved  absent,  whom  we  can 

not  reaoli  — 
By  deed  or  token,  gesture  or  kind 

speech. 
The  spirit's  true  affection  to  express; 
When  liearts  are  full  of   innermost 

distress,  |by. 

And  we  are  doomed  to  stand  Inactive 
Watching  the  soul's  or  body's  agony. 
Which    huiuan   effort   helps   not  to 

make  less  — 
Then  like  a  cup  capacious  to  contain 
The   overflowings   of    the    heart,   is 

prayer: 
The  longing  of  tlie  soul  is  satisfied, 
The  keenest  darts  of  anguish  blimted 

are; 
And,  though  we  can  not  cease  to 

yearn  or  grieve. 
Yet  we  have  learned  in  patience  to 

abide. 


LORD,  MAN  Y  TIMES  I  AM  A  WEAIi  Y. 

Lord,   many  times    I    am    aweary 
quite 
Of   mine    own   self,  my  sin,  my 
vanity  — 
Yet  be  not  Thou,  or  I  am  lost  out- 
right,— 
Weary  of  me. 


And  hate  against  myself  I  often  bear, 
And  enter  with  myself   in  fierce 
debate : 
Take  Thou  my  part  against  myself 
nor  allure 
In  that  just  hatel 

Best  friends  might  loathe  us,  if  what 
things  perverse 
We  know  of  our  own  selves,  they 
also  knew; 
Lord,  Holy  One!  if  Thou  who  know- 
est  worse 
Shouldst  loathe  us  too! 


iProm  Lines  to  a  Friend.^ 

WEAK  CONSOLATION. 

Oil,  miserable  comfort!    Loss  is  loss, 
And  death  is  deatli;  and  after  all  is 

done  — 
After  the  flowers  are  scattered  on  the 

tomb. 
After  the  singing   of    the  sweetest 

dirge  — 
The  mourner,  with  his  heart  uncom- 

forted, 
iieturning  to  his  solitary  home, 
Thinks  with  himself,  if  any  one  had 

aught 
Of  stronger  consolation,  he  should 

speak ; 
If  not,  'twere  best  for  ever  to  hold 

peace, 
And  not   to   mock   him  with  vain 

words  like  these. 


SADNESS  BORN  OF  BEAUTY. 

Am,  beautiful  things  bring  sadness 

nor  alone 
Music,    whereof    that    wisest    poet 

spake ; * 
Because   in  us  keen  longings    they 

awalvc 
After  file  good  for  which  we  pine  and 

groan. 
From  which  exiled  we  make  continual 

moan, 

*  I  am  never  merrv  when  1  hear  sweef 

UUSic.  —  SUAKKSPKARE. 


«04 


TRENCH. 


Till  once  again  we  may  our  spirits 

slake 
At  those  clear  streams,  which  man 

did  first  forsake, 
^^^lcn  he  would  dig  for  fountains  of 

his  own. 
All  beauty  makes  us  sad,  yet  not  in 

vain  — 
For  who  would  be  ungracious  to  re- 
fuse, 
Or  not  to  use,  this  sadness  without 

pain, 
\Miether  it  flows  upon  us  from  the 

hues 
Of  smiset,  from  the  time  of  stars 

and  dews, 
From  the  clear  sky,  or  waters  pure  of 

stalu? 


THE  LENT  JE  WRLS. 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was 

spent : 
His  steps  at  eve  the  Rabbi  homeward 

bent. 
With    hcjineward     thoughts,    wliich 

dwelt  ujion  the  wife 
And  two  fair  ehiidren  who  consoled 

ills  life. 
She,  meeting  at  tiie  threshold,  led 

liini  ill. 
And   Willi   these  words   preventing, 

(lid  begin:  — 
"  Ever  rejoicing  at  your  wished  re- 
turn. 
Yet  am  1  most  so  now:  for  since  this 

mom 
I   have   iiet-n    mmli    jMriplexe*!   ami 

Sf>rely  tried 
I'pon  one  point  which  you  shall  now 

decide. 
Borne  yearn  ago,  a    frirud  into  my 

care 
Borne    jewelH    guvt — rich,    precious 

gi'ins  tbey  were; 
iJut  bavin;:  i;ivrii  tlh-m  In  my  charge, 

tills  frifud 
Did  afterward  nor  come  for  them,  nor 

.Hcnd, 
But  left  thi-m  in  my  koe|)ing  for  so 

That  now  it  almost  ueems  Ut  \\w  a 
wrong 


That  he  should  suddenly  arrive  to 

day. 
To  take  those  jewels,  which  he  left, 

away. 
What  think   yon?      Shall    I   freelj 

yield  tliiMu  l);ick. 
And  with  nonunnnu-ing? — so  hence* 

forth  to  lack 
Those    gems    myself,  whicli   I    had 

learned  to  see 
Almost  as  mine  for  ever,  mine  in 

fee." 

"  WHiat  question  can  be  here? 
Your  own  true  heart 

Must  needs  advise  you  of  the  only 
part: 

That  may  be  claimed  again  which 
was  but  lent. 

And  should  be  yielded  with  no  dis- 
content. 

Nor  sun'ly  can  we  find  herein  a 
wrong. 

That  It  was  left  us  to  enjoy  it  long." 

"  Good  is  the  word,"  she  answered 

"  may  we  now 
And  evermore  that  it  is  good  allow!' 
.And,  risiui:.  to  an  inner  ciiamliiT  led. 
And  then'  slie  showed  liim,  stret4.'hed 

ujion  one  bed. 
Two  children  i)ale:  and  he  the  jeweli 

knew. 
Which  fJod   had   lent  him,  and  re- 

BlUned  anew. 


PATIENCR. 

Be  patient !  oh,  be  patient !  Put  yoiu" 
oar  airainst  the  earth; 

Listen  there  how  nniselessly  the  genu 
o'  the  seed  has  birth  — 

How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  up- 
heaves its  little  vav. 

Till  it  \y.\r\.*  I  lie  seaicely  broken 
^'I'liuiid,  and  I  lit  blade  standi 
up  in  the  day. 

lie  patient  I  .'li.  be  pal  lent!  Tl)e 
geriiis  of  iiiiiilny  thdUgbl 

Must  have  ihi"ir  silent  niidermowtb, 
mufll  underyioiind  be  wrouuht' 


TRENCH. 


605 


But  as  sure  as  there's  a  power  that 
makes  the  grass  appear, 

Our  land  shall  he  green  with  liberty, 
the  blade-time  shall  be  here. 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient  —  go  and 

watch  the  wheat  ears  grow  — 
So  imperceptibly  that  ye  can  mark 

nor  change  nor  throe  — 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  till  the 

ear  is  fully  grown, 
And  then  again  day  after  day,  till  the 

ripened  field  is  brown. 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient!  —  though 

yet  our  hopes  are  green. 
The  harvest-fields  of  freedom  shall 

be  crowned  with  sunny  sheen. 
Be  ripening!  be  ripening  I  —  mature 

your  silent  way, 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued 

with  fire  on  freedom's  harvest 

dayl 


HAPPINESS    IN    LITTLE     THINGS 
OF   THE  PRESENT. 

We  live  not  in  our  moments  or  our 

years: 
The  present  we  fling  from  us  like  the 

rind 
Of  some  sweet  future,  which  we  after 

find 
Bitter  to  taste,  or  bind  that  in  with 

fears, 
And  water  it  beforehand  with  om* 

tears  — 
Vain  tears  for  that  which  never  may 

arrive; 
Ikleanwhile  the  joy  whereby  we  ought 

to  live, 
Neglected,  or  unhecdcvl,  disappears. 
Wiser  it  were  to  welcome  and  make 

ours 
Whate'er  of  goo<l,  though  small,  the 

present  brings  — 
Kind    greetings,   sunshine,   song    of 

birds,  and  flowers. 
With  a  child's  pure  delight  in  little 

tilings; 
And  of  the  griefs  unborn  to  rest  se- 
cure. 
Knowing  that  mercy  over  will  endure. 


THE  ERMINE. 

To  niiiy  places  me  the  hunters  drive, 
Where  I  my  robes  of  purest  white 
must  stain; 
Then  yield  I,  nor  for  life  will  longer 
strive. 
For  spotless  death,  ere  spotted  life, 
is  gain. 


THE  DEES. 

We  light  on  fruits  and  flowers,  and 
purest  things; 
For  if  on  carcases  or  aught  unclean. 
When  homeward  we  returned,  with 
mortal  stings 
Would  slay  us  the  keen  watchers 
round  our  queen. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Leaning  my  bosom  on  a  pointed 
thorn, 
I    bleed,    and    bleeding    sing    my 
sweetest  strain: 
For  sweetest  songs  of  saddest  hearts 
are  born. 
And  who  may  here  dissever  love 
and  pain  ? 


THE  SNAKE. 

Myself  I  force  some  narrowest  pas- 
sage through, 
Leaving  my  old  and  wrinkled  skin 
behind. 
And  issuing  forth  in  splendor  of  my 
new : 
Hard  entrance  into  life  all  creatures 
find. 


THE   TIGER. 

Hearing  sweet  music,  as  in  fell  de- 
spite. 
Himself  the  tiger  doth  in  pieces 
tear: 
The  melody  of  other  men's  delight 
There  are,  alas!  who  can  as  littlfl 
bear. 


606 


TRENCH. 


Tin:  niAVosn 

I   ONLY  polishp<I   am    in   iniiie  own 
(lust  — 
Naiiulii  I'lso  aijainsl  luy  lianiness 
will  ]ir»»vail : 
And   tliuu,   O   man,    in    thine    own 
suflferin^'s  must 
Be  polished:  every  meaner  art  will 
fail. 


FM.i.isn  ST  A  US. 

A_NGKLR    are  we,    that,   once    from 
heaven  exiled. 
Would  ciiiiib  its  crystal  battlements 
aiiaiii; 
But  have  their  keen-eyed  watchers 
not  beguiled. 
Hurled  by  their  glittering  lances 
back  amain. 


UARAIO.'iAN. 

Now  the  tliird  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Persian  throne  was  done, 
Antl  the  Mn^lcms  tii-ry  valor  had  the  crowning  victoi^  won. 

Ilarmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  the  invader  to  defy. 

Captive  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were  bringing  forth  to  die. 

Tlien  exclaimed  that  noble  captive:  "Lol  I  perish  in  my  thirst; 
Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  let  then  arrive  the  worst!" 

In  his  liaml  he  took  the  goblet,  but  awhile  the  draught  forbore, 
.Seeming  doidttfidly  the  purpose  of  the  foemen  to  exidore. 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest  — for  arouml  him  angry  foes 
With  a  heilge  of  naked  weapons  did  thai  lonely  man  enclose. 

"  Hut  what  fear' St  thou  ?"  cried  the  caliph;  —  "  is  it.  friend,  a  secret  blowf 
Fear  it  not  I  —  our  gallant  Moslem  no  such  treacherous  dealing  know. 

"  Thou  mayst  quench  thy  thirst  securely,  for  thou  shalt  not  die  before 
Thou  hast  drunk  that  cii])  of  wati-r  —  tiiis  reprieve  is  thine  —  no  more!  ' 

l^iiick  the  satraj)  dashed  tlu-  golilti  down  to  earth  with  ready  hand. 
And  the  llcjuiil  sank  for  ever,  lost  amid  the  burning  sand. 

•'  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till  the  water  of  that  cup 

I  have  drained;  then  i»id  thy  servants  thai  si)illed  water  gather  up!" 

For  a  moment  stocxl  the  caliph  as  by  d<nd)tful  passions  stirred  — 
Then  exclaimed:   "  For  iver  sacred  must  riinain  a  m()nar<Ii's  word. 


"  Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to  the  noble  I'ersian  give: 
Drink,  1  said  before,  and  perish  — now  I  bid  thee  drink  and  livel" 


TROWBRIDOE.  607 


John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 

THE  NAME  IN  THE  BAUK. 

The  self  of  so  long  ago, 

And  tlie  self  I  struggle  to  know,  — 
I  sometimes  think  we  are  two, —  or  are  we  shadows  of  one? 

To-day  the  shadow  I  am 

Returns  in  the  sweet  summer  calm 
To  trace  where  the  earlier  shadow  flitted  awhile  in  the  sun. 

Once  more  in  the  de\\'y  morn 

I  came  through  the  whispering  corn ; 
Cool  to  my  fevered  cheek  soft  breezy  kisses  were  blown; 

The  ribboned  and  tasselled  grass 

Leaned  over  the  flattering  glass, 
And  the  simny  waters  trilled  the  same  low  musical  tone. 

To  the  gray  old  birch  I  came, 

Where  I  whittled  my  school-boy  name : 
The  nimble  squirrel  once  more  ran  skippingly  over  the  rail, 

The  blackbirds  down  among 

The  alders  noisily  sung. 
And  under  the  blackberry-brier  whistled  the  serious  quaU. 

I  came,  remembering  well 

How  my  little  shadow  fell, 
As  I  painfully  reached  and  wrote  to  leave  to  the  future  a  sign: 

There,  stooping  a  little,  I  found 

A  half-healed,  curious  wound. 
An  ancient  scar  in  the  bark,  but  no  initial  of  mine! 

Then  the  wise  old  boughs  overhead 

Took  coimsel  together,  and  said, — 
And  the  buzz  of  their  leafy  lips  like  a  murmur  of  prophecy  passed,- 

"  He  is  busily  carving  a  name 

In  the  tough  old  wrinkles  of  fame; 
But,  cut  he  as  deep  as  he  may,  the  lines  will  close  over  at  last!" 

Sadly  I  pondered  awhile. 

Then  I  lifted  my  soul  with  a  smile, 
And  I  said""  Not  cheoiiul  men,  but  anxious  children  are  we, 

Still  hurting  ourselves  with  the  knife. 

As  we  toil  al  the  letters  of  life,  » 
Just  marring  a  little  the  rind,  never  piercing  the  heart  of  the  tree," 

And  now  by  the  rividet's  brink 

I  leisurely  saunter,  and  think 
How  idle  this  strife  will  appear  when  circling  ages  have  rim, 

If  then  the  real  I  am 

Descind  from  the  heavenly  calm. 
To  trace  where  the  shadow  I  seem  once  flitted  aw  liile  in  the  sun. 


608 


TRUWDRIDQE, 


Tilt:  liESTOHKI)   r  I  (TV  HE. 

I.N  liil«T  years,  veiling  its  unblcst  face 

In  a  most  loathsome  place, 
The  cheap  adornment  of  a  house  of 
shame. 
It  him;,s  till,  gnawed  away 
liy  tooth  of  slow  decay. 
It  fell,  and  i>arted  from  its  moulder- 
ing frame. 

The  rotting  canvas,  faintlv  smiling 
still. 
From  worldly  puff  and  frill, 
Its    ghastly   smile   of    coiinetry  and 
pride, 
Crumpling  its  faded  charms 
And  yellow  jewelled  arms. 
Mere  ruldjish   now,  was  rudely  cast 
aside. 

The  shadow  of  a  Genius  crossed  the 
gate: 
He,  skilled  to  re-create 
in  old  and  ruined  paintings  their  lost 
soul 
And  beauty. —  one  who  knew 
The  Master's  touch  by  true. 
Swift  instinct,  a-  ilie  needle  knows 
the  pole, — 

i.ooked   on   it,  ami   straightway  his 
searching  eyes 
Saw  through  ils  coarse  di.sgtuse 
(Jf  vulgar  jKiini  ami  grime  and  var- 
nish stain 
The  Art  that  slept  beneath.— 
A  chrysalis  in  its  sheath. 
That   waited    to    Ik«   wake<l    to    life 
again. 

Upon  enduring  canvas  to  n-new 

Kach  wonilrous  trait  and  hue, — 

This  is  till-  niirarl)',  his  clinsen  task  I 
lie  liiars  it  to  bis  b(»use. 
And  there  from  Ii])s  and  brows 

With  lovinj;  Irniib  iinidVis  llniralieii 
mask.  « 

For  so  on  Its  ix-rfection  time  had  laid 

.\n  (-arly  mellowing  shade; 
Then   bands  unskilled,  each  seeking 
to  impart 
Fre.HJi  tints  to  fonn  and  face. 
With  soiin-  moir  iiioilern  ),'raee. 
Had  burled  «iuit<-  the  ndghly  Master's 
Art. 


First,  razed  from  the  divine  original, 

Blow,  check,  and  lid.  went  all 
That    outer    sbajK^    of    worldliuess; 
when,  lol 
Ii»'nealli  the  varnished  crust 
Of  long-embedded  dust 
A     fairer    face    appears,    em«rging 
.slow, — 

The  features  of   a  simple  shepherd- 
ess! 
Pure  eyes,  and  golden  tress. 
.Viid,    lastly,    crook    in    hand.      Hut 
deeper  still 
The  .Masters  work  lies  hid; 
And  still  lliiough  lip  and  lid 
\\ Hrks  the  Kesiorer  with  unsi>aring 
skill. 

Heboid,  at  length,  in  tender  light   re- 
vealcil. 
The  soul  so  long  concealed! 
All  heavenly  faint  at  tirst,  then  softly 
briglu. 
As  smiles  the  young-eyed  Dawn 
When  tiarkne.ss  is  witiidrawn, 
A    shining    angel    breaks   upon   the 
sight! 

Kestored,  perfected,  after  the  divine 

Imperishable  design, 
Ia),  now!  thai  oncedespise«l  and  out* 
east  thing 
Ib.lds  its  true  place  among 
The  fairest  pict tires  bung 
In  tin-  hiL,'b  jiala<-e  of  our  Lord  the 
King! 


.U//M(7.V/7  A'. 

Till",  speckled  sk\  is  dim  with  snow. 
The   light    Hakes'  falter    and    fall 
slow ; 
\tliwail  the  hill-toj),  rajtl  and  pale, 
silently  drops  a  silvi'ry  veil; 
And  ail  the  valb-y  is  shut  in 
Hy  flickering  curiains  gray  and  tbiiu 

I  wnlch  the  slow  Hakes  as  they  fall 
Oil  bank  and  bri<r  and  broken  wall- 
Over  the  onliard,  wasii-aiid  brown. 
.Ml  noiselessly  they  .settle  down, 


TROWBRIDGE. 


609 


Tipping  the  apple-boughs,  and  each 
Light  quivering  twig  of  phnn  and 
peach. 

On  turf  and  curb  and  bower-roof 
The  snow  storm    spreads   its  ivory 

woof; 
It  paves  with  pearl  the  garden  walk ; 
And  lovingly  round  tattered  stalk 
And  shivering  stem  its  magic  weaves 
A  mantle  fair  as  lily-leaves. 

The  hooded  beehive,  small  and  low, 
Stands  like  a  maiden  in  the  snow; 
And  the  old  door-slab  is  half  hid 
Under  an  alabaster  lid. 

All  day  it  snows :  the  sheeted  post 
Gleams  in  the  dimness  like  a  ghost; 
All  day  the  blasted  oak  has  stood 
A  mullled  wizard  of  the  wood ; 
Garland  and  airy  cap  adorn 
The  sumach  and  the  wayside  thorn. 
And  clustering  spangles  lodge  and 

shine 
In  the  dark  tresses  of  the  pine. 

The  ragged  bramble,  dwarfed  and  old, 

Shrinks  like  a  beggar  in  the  cold ; 
In  siu'plice  white  the  cedar  stands, 
And  blesses  him  with  priestly  hands. 

Still  cheerily  the  chickadee 
Singeth  to  me  on  fence  and  tree: 
But  in  my  inmost  ear  is  heard 
The  music  of  a  holier  bird; 
And  heavenly  thoughts,  as  soft  and 

white 
As  snow-flakes,  on  my  soid  alight, 
Clothing  with  love  my  lonely  heart, 
Healing    with    peace    each    bruised 

part, 
Till  all  my  being  seems  to  be 
Transfigured  by  their  purity. 


MIDSUMMER. 

Bfx'ALMED  along  the  azure  sky, 
The  argosies  of  cloudland  lie. 
Whose  shores,  with  many  a  shining 

rift, 
Fai'  off  their  pearl-white  peaks  uplift. 


Through  all  the  long  midsummer- 
day 

The  meadow-sides  are  sweet  witlj 
hay. 

I  seek  the  coolest  sheltered  seat. 

Just  where  the  field  and  forest 
meet, — 

\Miere  grow  the  pine-trees  tall  and 
bland, 

The  ancient  oaks  austere  and  grand, 

And  fringy  roots  and  pebbles  fret 

The  ripples  of  the  rivulet. 

1  watch  the  mowers,  as  they  go 

Through  the  tall  grass,  a  white- 
sleeved  row. 

With  even  stroke  their  scythes  they 
swing, 

In  tune  their  merry  whetstones  ring. 

Behind  the  nimble  youngsters  run. 

And  toss  the  thick  swaths  in  the  sun. 

The  cattle  graze,  while,  warm  and 
still. 

Slopes  the  broad  pasture,  basks  the 
hill. 

And  bright,  where  summer  breezes 
break. 

The  green  wheat  crinkles  like  a  lake. 

The  butterfly  and  buniljle-bci' 
Come  to  the  pleasant  woods  with  me; 
Quickly  before  me  runs  the  quail. 
Her  chickens  skulk  behind  the  rail; 
High  up  the  lone  wood-pigeon  sits. 
And  the  woodpecker  pecks  and  flits. 
Sweet    woodland    music    sinks    and 

swells. 
The  brooklet  rings  its  tinkling  bells. 
The    swarming    insects    drone    and 

hum. 
The    partridge    beats   his  throbbing 

drum. 
The  sciuirrcl  leaps  among  the  boughs, 
And  cluittcrs  in  liis  leafy  liouse. 
The  orioli>  flashes  liy;  and  look! 
Into  the  mirror  of  the  l)rook, 
Wliere   the  vain   bluebird    trims  hii 

coat, 
Two  tiny  feathei-s  fall  and  float. 

As  silently,  as  tenderly. 
The  down  of  peace  descends  on  me, 
(),  this  is  peace  I  I  have  no  need 
Of  friend  to  talk,  of  book  to  read: 


tilU 


THOWBlilDUE. 


\  'Icar  floiMivmlon  here  abides; 
t  lose  iO  my  tlirllliuu  hrart  He  hides; 
The  iioly  silence  is  His  N'oice: 
I  he  and  listeu,  aud  rejoice. 


REAL  ESTATE. 

TnK    pleasant   grounds  are  greenly 

turfed  and  jjridcd; 
A    sturdy  porter  waiteth    at    the 

gate; 
The     graceful     avenues,     serenely 

sliaded. 
And    curving  paths,  are  interlaced 

and  i)raided 
lu   many  a  maze  around  my  fair 

estate. 

Here  bloom  the  early  hyacinth,  and 

clover 
And  amaranth  and  myrtle  wreathe 

lilt"  ground; 
The  pensive  lily  leans  her  pale  cheek 

over; 
And   hither    comes    the   bee,   lii^ht- 

licarled  rover, 
Wooing   the  sweet-breathed  flowers 

witli  soothing  sound. 

Entwining,  in  their  manifold  digres- 
sions. 
Lauds  of  my  neighboi-s,  win<l  these 
peaceful  ways. 

The  ma-iti-rs.  coming  to  their  calm 
jmsses'-ions, 

Followed  in  solemn  state  by  long  pro- 
cessions. 
Make    ipdet    jiMirneys    these    still 
.siunnnr  days. 

This  is  my  freehold!  Kims  and  fring>' 
larches. 
Maples  and  pines,  and  stately  tlrs 
of  Norway. 

Kuild  round  me  their  green  pyramids 
and  arches; 

Sweet  l>  I  III-  robin  sings,  while  slowly 
marcli"-. 
'Ilic  stat<l)   pai^'cant  past  my    ver- 
dant doorway. 


t  )h,  sweetly  sing  the  robin  and  the 

sparrow! 
But   the    pale    tenant  very  silent 

riilt'S. 
A  low  green  roof  receivelh  him;  —  s(i 

narrow 
His   hollow  leiienunl,  a  schoolboy's 

arrow 
Might   span  the  space  betwi.\t  its 

grassy  siilcs. 

The  flowers  arouiul  him  ring  their 
wind-swung  chalices, 
A  great  iu'll  tolls  the  pageant's  slow 
advance. 

The   poor  alike,  and  lords  of   parks 
and  palaces. 

From  all   their  l>usy  schemes,  their 
fears  and  fallacies. 
Find  here  their  rest  anil  sure  inher- 
itance. 

No  more  hath  Ca-sar  or  Sardanapa- 

lus! 
Of  all  our  wide  doudnions,  soon  or 

late. 
Only    a    fathom's  space  can  aught 

avail  us; 
This   is  the   heritage  that  shall  not 

fail  us: 
Here  man  at  bust  comes  to  his  Ueal 

Estate. 

'•  .Secure  to  him  and  to  his  helre  for- 
ever" ! 
Nor  wealth  nor  want  shall  ve.\  his 
si)lrit  moie. 

Treasures  of  Imiic  and  love  and  high 
endeavor 

Follow     their    lilesi    proprietor;    but 
ni'ver 
Could  poni])  or  riches  jtass  this  llt^ 
til!  door. 

Flallerers  attend  bim.  but   almie  he 
enters.  — 
Shakes  off   the    dust    of    earth,  no 
more  to  roam. 

His  trial  ended,  sealed  bis  soul's  in- 
dentures. 

The  wanderer.   wear\  fn.m  bis  long 
a«lveniiires. 
Ueholds    tile    peace  of    his   eternal 
iiomu. 


TROWBRIDGE. 


611 


Lo,  more  than  life,  Man's  great  Estate 
comprises ! 
While  for  the  earthly  comer  of  his 
mansion 
A  little  nook  in  shady  Time  suffices, 
The   rainbow-pillared   heavenly  roof 
arises 
Ethereal  in  limitless  expansion ! 


THE    OLD    MAN    OF    THE    MOUN- 
TAIN. 

All  roimd  the  lake  the  wet  woods 
shake 
From  drooping  boughs  their  show- 
ers of  pearl ; 
From  floating  skiff  to  towering  cliff 

The  rising  vapors  part  and  curl. 
The  west-wind  stirs  among  the  firs 
High  up  the  mountain  side  emerg- 
ing; 
The  light  illumes  a  thousand  plumes 
Through    billowy    banners    round 
them  surging. 

A  glory  smites  the  craggy  heights : 

And  in  a  halo  of  the  haze. 
Flushed  with  faint  gold,  far  up,  behold 

That  mighty  face,  that  stony  gaze! 
In  the  wild  sky  upborne  so  high 

Above  us  perishable  creatures. 
Confronting  Time  with  those  sub- 
lime, 

Impassive,  adamantine,  featiires. 

Thou  beaked  and  bald  high  front, 
miscalled 
The  profile  of  a  human  face  I 
No  kin  art  thou,  O  Titan  brow, 

To  puny  man's  ejiheineral  race. 
T\w  groaning    earth    to    tliee  gave 
birtli,— 
Throes    and    convulsions    of     the 
planet; 
Lonely  uprose   in  grand  repose, 
Those  eighty  feet  of  facial  granite. 

Here  long,   while   vast,    slow    ages 
passed, 
Thine  eyes  (if  eyes  be  thine)  lieheld 
But  solitudes  of  eraijs  and  woods. 
Where  eagles   sereamed   ami   pan- 
thers yelled. 


Before  the  fires  of  our  pale  sires 
In  the  first  log-built  cabin  twinkled, 

Or  red  men  came  for  fish  and  game, 
That  scalp  was  scarred,  that  face 
was  wrinkled. 

We  may  not  know  how  long  ago 
That    ancient    countenance     was 
young; 
Thy  sovereign  brow  was  seamed  as 
now 
When    Moses    wrote  and    Homer 
sung. 
Empires  and  states  it  antedates, 
Ajjd  wars,  and  arts,  and  crime,  and 
glory ; 
In  that  ilim  morn   when  man  was 
born 
Thy     head     with    centuries    was 
hoary. 

Thou  lonely  one!  nor  frost,  nor  sun, 
Nor    tempest    leaves    on    thee  its 
trace ; 
The  stormy  years  are  but  as  tears 
That    pass    from  thy  imchanging 
face. 
With  unconcern  as  grand  and  stern, 
Those  features  viewed,  which  now 
survey  us, 
A  green  world  rise  from  seas  of  ice. 
And   order  come  from   mud   and 
chaos. 

Canst  thou  not  tell  what  then  befell? 
What    forces    moved,   or   fast  or 
slow; 
How  grew  the  hills ;  what  heats,  what 
chills. 
What  strange,  dim  life,  so  long  ago? 
High-visaged    peak,   wilt    thou    not 
speak? 
One  word  for  all  oui  leamfed  wran- 
gle! 
What  earthquakes  shaped,  what  gla- 
ciers s(Ta])ed, 
That  nosi>,  and  gave   the  chin  its 
angle? 

Oui  pygmy  thought  to  thee  is  naught. 
Our  i»etty  ()uestionings  are  vain; 

In  its  great  trance  thy  countenance 
Knows    not   compassion    nor    dis- 
dain. 


612 


TBOWnUJTtGE. 


With  far-t)ff  Imiu  we  go  and  come, 
The  gay,  tlic  grave,  the  busy-idle; 

And  all  things  done,  to  thee  are  one, 
Alike  tlie  burial  and  the  bridal. 

Thy  penuanence,  long  ages  hence. 
Will  mock  the    pride  of  mortals 
still. 
Returning  springs,   with  songs  and 
wings  I  fill; 

And  fragrance,  shall  these  valleys 
The   free  winds  blow,   fall   rain  or 
snow. 
The  mountains  brim  their  crystal 
breakers ; 
Still  come  and  go,  still  ebb  and  flow. 
The  summer  tides  of  pleasure-seek- 
ers. 

The  dawns  shall  gild  the  peaks  where 
build 
The  eagles,  many  a  future  pair; 
The  gray  scud  lag  on  wood  and  crag, 

Dissolving  in  the  purple  air; 
The    sunligiit    gleam    on    lake   and 
stream, 
Houghs   wave,   stonns   bn'ak,  ami 
still  at  even 
All  glorious  hues  the  world  suffuse, 
Heaven  mantle  t-arth,  earth  melt  in 
liraven! 

Nations    shall    jiass    like    summer's 
grass. 
And   times  unborn  grow  old  antl 
cliamre; 
New  govcnimeiiis  and  great  events 
Shall    rise,   and   science   new  and 
strange: 
Vet  will  thy  gaze  confront  the  days 

With  its  eternal  ealiii  and  patience, 

'I'lii- fvening  red  still  light  tliy  liea<l. 

Above  thee  bum  the  constellations. 

()  silent  speech,  that  well  can  tencli 

The  little  worth  of  words  or  fame! 
I  go  my  way,  but  tbou  wilt  stay 

Wliilf    future    millions     pass    tlie 
sane-: 
But  what  is  tids  I  seem  to  ndss  ? 

ThoMi-  itMiures  fall  into  eotif  usion  I 
A    further    pace — where    was    that 
fart-  ? 

The  veriest  fugitive  illnsioni 


Gray  eidolon!  so  quickly  gone, 

W  hen  eyes  that  make  ihee  onward 
move; 
Whose  vast  pretence  of  permanence 

A  little  progress  can  disprove! 
Like    some   huge   wraith  of   human 
faith 
That  to  the  mind  takes  form  and 
measure ; 
Grim  monolith  of  creed  or  myth. 
Outlined  against  the  eternal  a^iu'el 

O  Titan,  how  dislimned  art  thou! 

A  withered  cliff  is  all  wc  see; 
That  giant  nose,  that  gr;uid  repose. 

Have  in  a  moment  ceased  to  be; 
Or  still  depend  on  lines  that  blend. 

On  merging  sha^>es,  and  sight,  au* 
distance. 
And  in  the  mind  alone  can  luid 

Imaginary  brief  existence! 


STANZAS  FItOM  '' SEIiVKE: 

\\'i:m,  might  red  shame  my  check 
consume! 

0  servii-e  slighted! 

0  Bride  of  Paradise,  to  whom 

1  long  was  plii,'hted  ! 

Do  1  with  burning  lips  profess 

To  serve  thee  wholly. 
Yet  labor  less  for  blessedness 

Than  fools  for  folly  ? 

The  war^'  worldlini:  spread  his  toils 

Wbilsi  I  was  sl.Tpinu; 
Tbf  wakeful  nnscr  locked  his  s|ioil8, 

Keen  viilils  kee])il)'^: 

1  loosed  tin-  I  iIiIh-s  of  my  soul 
To  iilradini;  rb-asun-, 

Wlio  siayi-<l  one  little  hour,  and  stole 
My  heavenly  treasure. 

A  friiiid  for  friend's  sake  will  endurti 

Sbarji  provoiations; 
And  knaves  ure  «  imnimr  to  sectiro, 

Mv  eriie'in','  i>atiiMirc. 
Ami  smili's  upon  !i  smarting  rlicek, 

Somr  di:ir  advantau'e. — 
Swalbinu'  ilinr  u'rievaiuM's  in  meek 

Submission's  Ihinda^o. 


TROWBRIDGE. 


613 


Vet  for  thy  sake  I  will  not  take 

One  drop  of  trial, 
But  raise  rebellious  hands  to  break 

The  bitter  vial. 
At  hardship's  surly-visaged  chtu'l 

My  spirit  sallies; 
And  melts,  O  Peace!    thy  priceless 
pearl 

In  passion's  chalice. 

Yet  never  quite,  in  darkest  night, 

Was  I  forsaken: 
Down  trickles  still  some  starry  rill 

My  heart  to  waken. 


O  Love  Divine !  could  I  resign 

This  changefn!  spirit 
To  walk  thy  ways,  what  wealth  ol 
grace 

Might  I  inherit! 

If  one  poor  flower  of  thanks  to  thee 

Be  truly  given, 
All  night  thou  slowest  down  to  me 

Lilies  of  heaven ! 
One  task  of  human  love  fulfilled 

Thy  glimpses  tender, 
My  days  of  lonely  labor  gild. 

With  gleams  of  splendor! 


MY  COMRADE  AND  I. 

We  two  have  grown  up  so  divinely  together. 

Flower  within  flower  from  seed  witliin  seed, 
The  sagest  philosopher  cannot  say  whether 

His  being  or  mine  was  flrst  called  and  decreed. 
In  the  life  before  birth,  by  inscrutable  ties. 

We  were  linked  each  to  each;  I  am  bound  up  in  him; 
He  sickens,  I  languish;  without  me,  he  dies; 

I  am  life  of  his  life,  he  is  limb  of  my  limb. 

Twin  babes  from  one  cradle,  I  tottered  about  with  him, 

Chased  the  bright  butterflies,  singing,  a  boy  with  him; 
Still  as  a  man  I  am  borne  in  and  out  with  him, 

Sup  with  him,  sleep  with  him,  suffci',  enjoy  with  him. 
Faithful  companion,  me  long  he  has  carried 

Unseen  in  his  bosom,  a  lamp  to  his  feet; 
More  near  than  a  bridegroom,  to  him  I  am  married, 

As  light  in  the  sunbeam  is  wedded  to  heat. 


If  my  beam  be  withdrawn  he  is  senseless  and  blind; 

I  am  sight  to  his  vision,  I  hear  with  his  ears; 
His  the  marvellous  brnin,  T  the  masterful  mind; 

I  laugh  with  liis  laiiLrhtei-.  and  weep  w  ith  his  tears 
So  well  that  the  ignorant  deem  ns  but  one: 

They  see  but  oni'  sliajie  and  they  name  lis  one  nama 
O  pliant  accomplice!  what  deeds  we  have  done, 

Thus  banded  together  for  glory  or  shame. 

When  evil  waylays  us,  and  passion  surprises, 

And  we  are  too  fccblt'  to  sti-ive  or  to  fly, 
Wlien  hunger  comi)rls  or  when  ]>leasnre  entices. 

Which  most  is  the  sinner,  my  comrade  or  I  ? 
And  when  over  ]ierils  and  jinins  and  temptations 

I  trinmph,  when'  still  1  should  falter  and  faint, 
Biit  for  him.  iron-ni'rved  for  liiToieal  patience. 

Whose  then  is  the  virtue,  and  which  is  the  saint. 


614  TUPPES. 

Am  I  the  one  sinner  ?  of  honors  sole  cliiimnnt 

For  aotions  whieh  only  we  two  ran  ju-rfoini  ? 
Am  I  the  true  creatine,  and  thou  hut  the  raiment  ? 

Tiiou  magical  mantle,  all  vital  ami  warm, 
Wrapjied  about  nu",  a  screen  from  the  rousili  winds  of  Time, 

Of  texturi'  so  llfxije  to  feature  and  Lre^lun-I 
Can  ever  I  part  from  thee  ?     Is  there  a  i-lime 

Where  Life  needeth  not  this  terrestrial  vesture? 

When  comes  the  sad  summons   to  sever  the  sweet 

.Subtle  tie  that  mutes  ns.  and  trenmlous,  fearful. 
I  feel  thy  loosed  fetters  depart  from  my  t<Mt ; 

When  friends  iiatlu-r  round  us.  palc-visaijed  ami  tearful, 
Beweep  and  Ijcwail  thee,  thou  fair  eartldy  prison! 

And  kiss  thy  cold  doors,  for  thy  inmate  mistaken; 
Their  eyes  seeing  not  the  freed  captive,  arisen 

From  thy  tramnnls  unclasiM-d  and  thy  shackles  downshaken; 

Oh,  then  shall  I  linu't'r.  nluctaiit  to  bn'ak 

The  dear  .sensitive  chains  ihal  aboiu  me  liave  {^rown? 

And  all  this  bright  world,  can  1  bear  to  forsake 
Its  emitosoming  beauty  and  love,  and  alone 

Joiuiiey  on  to  1  know  not  what  retiions  untrii-d  '.' 
Exists  there,  beyond  llie  dim  doud-rack  of  death, 

Such  life  as  enchants  us?    <)  skies  arched  and  wide! 

0  delicate  senses!  t)  exquisit*;  breath! 

Ah,  tenderly,  tenderly  over  thee  hovering, 

1  shall  look  down  on  thee,  empty  and  noven. 
Pall'  moidil  of  my  bringi  —  thou  visible  covering 

WhcnfroiM  my  invisible  raiment  is  wnvtMi. 
Though  .sad  be  tlu'  passage,  nor  pain  sliall  appall  me, 

Nor  parting,  assured,  wheresoever  I  niuge 
The  glad  (ields  of  existence  that  naught  can  befall  me 

That  is  not  still  beautifid,  blesm-d  and  strange. 


Martin  Farquhar  Tupper* 

( fVfmi  Srlf-.-lri/uuinlaiur.] 

iLJj-rnosi  s  r i  'tis vi rs. 

The  blind  at  an  easel,  the  palsied  with  a  graver,  the  hall  making  for  the  goal, 
Tin-  deaf  .nr  iiuiing  psalierv,  the  stammerer  discoursing  eloquence,— 
What  wotider  if  all  fall?  llie  shaft  IlieDi  wide  of  (he  mark, 
Alik.' if  iis.-lf  br  .rnok.Ml.  or  the  ,.nw  b.' strung  awry;  „    ,    , 

And  the  mind  «liicli  wm-  exe.-llent    in  one  way.  I'lit   foolishly  tolleth  hi 

.IMOthtT. 

What  is  It  l)iu  an  lll-sining  bow.  ami  its  aim  a  crooked  anx)W? 

By  knowli-dire  of  s.-lf.  thoti  provest  thy  p<iwi'rs;  j.ul  not  the  racer  to  the 

{•lough. 
Nor  goad  the  toilsome  ox  to  wager  hl«  nlowness  witli  the  fleet. 

•  The  cxtrncU  frwm  tJilii  nuthor  arc  fron   I'n.v.rl.lnt  rii(l<wnp)iy. 


TUPPER.  ■      615 

[From  Fame.] 
THE  DIGNITY  AND  I'ATlEhCR   OF  GENIUS. 

A  GREAT  mind  is  an  altar  on  a  Iiill;  sliould  the  lidest  descend  from  his 

altitude 
To  canvass  offerings  and  worship  from  dwellers  on  the  plain  ? 
Rather  with  majestic  perseverance,  will  lie  mijiister  in  solitary  grandeur, 
(.'onfident  the  time  will  come  when  pilgrims  shall  be  flocking  to  the  shrine. 
For  fame  is  the  birthright  of  genius;  and  he  recketh  not  how  long  it  be 

delayed : 
The  heir  need  not  hasten  to  his  heritage,  when  he  knoweth  that  his  tenure 

is  eternal. 
The  careless  poet  of  Avon,  was  he  troubled  for  his  fame  ? 
Or  the  deep-mouthed  chronicler  of  Paradise,  heeded  he  the  suffrage  of  his 

equals  ? 
Maeonides  took  no  thought,  committing  all  his  honors  to  the  future. 
And  Flaccus,  standing  on  his  watch-tower,  spied  the  praise  of  ages. 


[From  Tniihin  Things  False.] 
SPIIilTUAL   FEELERS. 

The  soul  hath  its  feelers,  cobwebs  floating  on  the  wind, 
That  catch  events  in  their  approach  with  sure  and  apt  presentiment. 
So  that  some  halo  of  attraction  heraldeth  a  coming  friend. 
Investing,  in  his  likeness,  the  stranger  that  passed  on  before; 
And  while  the  word  is  in  thy  mouth,  behold  thy  word  fulfilled, 
And  he  of  whom  we  spake  can  answer  for  himself. 


[From,  Writing.'] 

LETTERS. 

TiiEin  preciousness  in  absence  is  proved  by  the  desire  of  their  presence: 

When  the  despairing  lover  waiteth  day  after  day. 

Looking  for  a  word  in  reply,  one  word  writ  by  that  hand. 

And  cursing  bitterly  the  morn  ushereil  in  by  blank  disappointment: 

Or  when  the  long-looked-for  answer  argueth  a  cooling  fiieml. 

And  the  mind  is  plied  suspiciously  with  <lark  inexplicable  doubts. 

While  tliy  wounded  heart  counteth  its  imaginary  scars, 

And  thou  art  the  innocent  and  injured,  that  friend  the  capricious  and  in 

fault: 
Or  when  the  earnest  petition,  that  craveth  for  thy  needs 
Unheeded,  yea,  unoi)ened,  tortureth  witii  starving  delay : 
Or  when  the  silence  of  a  son,  who  would  have  written  of  his  welfare, 
Uacketh  a  father's  bosom  with  sharp-cutting  fears: 
For  a  letter,  timely  will,  is  a  rivet  to  the  chain  of  affection; 
And  a  letter,  untimely  delayed,  is  as  rust  to  the  solder. 
The  pen,  flowing  in  love,  or  dipped  black  in  hate. 
Or  tipped  with  delicate  courtesies,  or  harshly  eilged  with  censure. 
Hath  ((uickened  more  Kood  than  the  sun.  more  evil  than  the  sword. 
More  joy  than  woman's  smile,  more  woe  lliau  frowniu','  fortune; 
And  sliouldst  thou  ask  my  judgment  of  that  which  hath  most  profit  in  the 

world. 
For  answer  take  thou  this,  The  prudent  penning  of  a  letter. 


616  TUPPER. 

[From  lieauty.] 
THE   CONQUEItOn. 

Thou  mightier  than  Manoah's  son,  whence  is  thy  great  strength, 
And  wherein  the  secret  of  thy  craft,  O  chanuer  clianuing  wisely  ?  — 

Ajax  may  rout  a  phalanx,  but  beauty  shall  enslave  him  single-handed: 
Pericles  ruled  Athens,  yet  is  he  the  servant  o{  Aspasia: 
Light  were   the   laiior,  and   often-told    the   tale,  to  eount    the   vietories    of 
beauty,  — 

Learning  silteth  at  her  feet,  and  Idleness  laboreth  to  please  lier; 
Folly  hath  tlung  asidi;  his  bells,  and  leaden  Dulness  glowelh; 
Prudence  is  rash  in  her  defence;  Frugality  (illcth  her  with  riches; 
Despair  came  to  lier  for  counsel;  and  liereavemcnt   Wiu;  glail   when  slu- 

consoled ; 
Justice  putteth  up  his  sword  at  the  tear  of  supplicating  Ix'auty 
And  Mercy,  with  indulgent  liaste,  hath  jiardoiied  beauty  s  sin. 
For  beauty  is  the  substitute  for  all  lhinii-<.  satisfying  every  absence, 
Tiie  rich  delirious  cup,  to  make  all  else  forgotten. 


{From  Jleautij.] 

MEN  TA  L  SV  I'lUiMA  C  Y. 

TiiKiiE  is  a  beauty  of  the  reason:  grandly  independent  of  externals. 

It  looketh  from  the  win(h)ws  of  the  house,  shining  in  the  man  tritun]>hant. 

I  have  seen  the  broad  blank  face  of  some  misshapen  dwarf 

Lit  on  a  suilden  as  with  glory,  tin;  brilliaul  ligiit  of  mind: 

Who  then  imagiin-d  him  ileformed  ?  intelligence'  is  blazing  »m  his  forehead. 

There  is  emjiire  in  ids  eye,  and  sweetness  on  his  lip,  ami  ids  brown  cheek 

glittereth  with  l)eauty: 
And    1    have    known    some    Nireus  of    the  camp,  a  varidsbed  parai^on  of 

ebaud)erers. 
Fine,  elegant,  ami  sbajtejy.  mouMed  as  the  n)aslel^lieee  of  Phidia.H, — 
Such  an  one,  wkli  iiilellects  abased,  have  I  noted  cronebiiig  to  the  ilwarf. 
Whilst  his  lovers  scorn  the  fool  whose  i)eauty  lialli  departed! 


[Fmm  IWituty.] 
THE   SOUncE   OF   ,»M.V'.V    Ill'I.ISd    I'ASSIOS. 


Vkuii.v  tl 

(As    ex|K)i 


le  fancy  may  Im*  false,  yet  liath  it  met  me  in  mv  nni'^ings, 
(.»o  I :A|n/iUiding   tlie   pleasantness  of   pleasure,  bnl   no  way*  extenuating 

license,) 

Thai  even  those  yeuniinKS  afti-r  beauty,  in  wavwanl  wanton  voulb. 
Wlii-n  uuileless  of  ulterior  end.  it  eraveib  but  to  look  upon  ibe  lovely, 
Seem  like  atruggli'?*  of  the  soul,  ilimiy  remendii-rini;  |ire-exi.'.ienee. 
And  feeling  in  its  blindne.ss  for  a  long-lost  g04l  (o  satisfy  its  longing; 

(icn\,  the  imdibited  good,  is  root  and  stock  of  l>eauty. 

And  every  child  of  reason  ilrew  bis  e>.srn<'e  from  that  ^leni. 

Therefore,  It  is  of  intuition,  an  innate  liankerin^  for  home, 


TUPPER.  61  / 

A  sweet  returning  to  the  well,  from  which  our  spirit  flowed, 
That  we,  unconscious  of  a  cause,  should  bask  these  darkened  souls 
In  some  poor  relics  of  the  light  that  blazed  in  primal  beauty. 

Only,  being  burdened  with  the  body,  spiritual  appetite  is  warped, 

And  sensual  man,  with  taste  corrupted,  driiiketh  of  polliitious: 

Impulse  is  left,  but  indiscriminate;  his  hunger  feasteth  upon  carrion; 

His  natural  love  of  beauty  doteth  over  beauty  in  decay. 

He  still  thirsteth  for  the  beautiful ;  but  his  delicate  ideal  hath  grown  gross, 

And  the  very  sense  of  thirst  hath  been  fevered  from  affection  into  passion. 


\_From  Indirect  Influences.'] 

ARGUMENT. 

The  weakness  of  accident  is  strong,  where  the  strength  of  design  is  weak 
And  a  casual  analogy  convinceth,  when  a  mind  beareth  not  argument. 
Will  not  a  man  listen  ?  be  silent;  and  prove  thy  maxim  by  example: 
Never  fear,  thou  losest  not  thy  hold,  though  thy  mouth  doth  not  render  a 

reason. 
Contend  not  in  wisdom  with  a  fool,  for  thy  sense  maketh  much  of  his 

conceit. 
And  some  errors  never  would  have  thriven,  had  it  not  been  for  learned 

refutation; 
Yea,  much  evil  hath  been  caused  by  an  honest  wrestler  for  Iruili. 
And  much  of  unconscious  good,  by  the  man  that  hated  wisdom: 
For  the  intellect  judgeth  closely,  and  if  thou  overstep  thy  argument. 
Or  seem  not  consistent  with  thyself,  or  fail  in  iby  direct  purpose. 
The  mind  that  went  along  with  thee,  shall  stop  and  return  without  thee. 
And  thou  shalt  have  raised  a  foe,  where  thou  mightest  liave  won  a  friend. 


[From  Indirect  Influences.] 
THE   POWER   OF  SUOGESTION. 

Hints,  shrewdly  strown,  mightily  disturb  the  spirit, 

Where  a  barefaced  accusation  would  bo  too  ridiculous  for  cahmmy: 

The  sly  suggestion  touches  nerves,  and  nerves  contract  the  fronds, 

And  the  sensitive  mimosa  of  affection  trembUth  to  its  root; 

And  friendships,  the  growth  of  half  a   centiu-y,  those  oaks  that  laugh  aJ 

stonns. 
Have  been  cankered  in  a  night  by  a  worm.  ev(Mi  as  the  ])ropbet"s  gourd. 
Hast  thou  loved,  and  not  known  jealousy  '?  tor  a  sidelong  look 
Can  please  or  pain  thy  heart  more  flian  the  nudtitude  of  proofs: 
Ilast  thou  hated,  and  not  learned  that  thy  silent  scorn 
Uoth  deeper  aggravate  thy  foe  than  loud-cursing  Tualice  ?  — 

Thinkest  thou  the  thousand  eyes  that  shine  with  rapture  on  a  ruin, 
Would  have  looked  with  half  their  wonder  on  tlie  i)erfect  pile? 
And  wherefore  not — but  that  liuht  liiiits.  suggesting  unseen  beautl*' 
Fill  the  complacent  gazer  with  self-grown  conceits  ? 


618  TUPPER. 

And  so,  the  nipitl  skeU-h  wiiiiu'th  more  praiso  to  the  paiuter, 

Than  thi;  consuiniuatc  work  claltoralod  on  his  ta^el: 

And  so.  the  Ilflvctic  lion  eavi-rneil  in  the  Uving  rock 

Hath  more  of  majesty  and  force,  than  if  ujion  a  niarhle  pedestal. 

.     .     .     .     What  hath  charmed  thine  ear  in  niU'^ic  ? 

Is  it  the  labored  tlieme.  tlie  curious  fn_:,'ue  or  cento. — 

Nor  ratlier  the  sparkh's  of  intelligence  tlashiv.;;  from  sonic  strange  note 

Or  the  soft  melody  of  sounds  far  sweeter  for  simplicity  ? 

.     .     .     .     What  hath  filled  thy  nnnd  in  reatlin;;? 

Is  it  the  vohnne  of  detail,  where  all  is  orderly  set  down. 

And  they  that  read  may  run.  nor  need  lo  stop  and  think; 

The  Ixiok  carefully  accurate,  that  coimietli  tii<'c  im  better  than  a  fool. 

Gorgini:  tht;  passive  mind  with  annotated  notes;  — 

Nor  ratlier  the  half-suggested  thoughts,  the  riddles  ihivu  mayest  solve; 

The  light  analogy,  or  deep  allusion,  trusted  to  tby  learning. 

The  eontidence  implied  in  thy  skill  to  unravel  meaning  mysteries'? 

Fur  ideas  are  ofttimes  shy  of  the  close  furniture  of  wurdfe. 

And  tliuuglit.  wherein  only  is  jiowcr.  may  be  licsi  cou\cyed  Ity  a  suggestion. 

The  Hash  that  lighteth  up  a  valley,  amid  the  dark  midnight  of  a  storm, 

Coineth  the  mind  with  that  scene  sharper  than  lifty  summers. 


[Ftvm  Xume».] 

ILL-CHItlS  TEN  ED. 

Wii<»  wotild  rail  the  tench  a  whale,  or  style  a  torch.  Orion  ? 

\vX  many  a  silly  parent  hath  dealt  likewise  willi  his  nursling. 

(five  thy  cliild  a  lit  distinguishmeiit,  making  him  sole  tenant  of  n  nnin<>. 

For  it  wore  sore  hindrance  to  hold  ii  in  cniiinioii  with  a  hinidrc<l; 

In  the  Itabel  of   CDllfused  identities  f.'iiiic  is  little  feasible. 

The  felon  shall  deiiaet  from  the  philanthropist,  and  the  sage  share  honor- 

with  the  simple: 
Still,  in  thy  title  of  dislingiiishmenf.  fall  not  info  arrogant  assinnption. 
.Steering  from  caprice  ami  alTccijitions;  and  for  all  thou  do'  s;  have  a  reason 
He  that  is  aml)itions  for  his  son.  should  give  him  untried  names. 
For  those  ibal  have  served  other  men.  haply  may  injure  by  their  evils; 
Or  otherwise  may  hiinler  by  their  glori<'s;  iherefoie  set  him  hy  himself, 
To  win  for  his  indi\  iiliial  name  some  clear  specific  juaise. 
I'here  were  nine  Homers,  all  gooiUy  sons  of  song;  Imt  where  is  any  record 

of  the  eight  i* 
One  grew  lo  fame,  an  Aaron's  rod,  and  swallowed  u|)  his  brethren. 
Who  kiioweth  ?  more  distinctly  titled,  those  dead  eight  had  lived; 

.Art  thou  named  of  a  family,  the  .same  in  successive  generations  '.* 

It  is  ojieii  lo  thee  still  to  earn  for  epithels,  such  an  one,  the  good  or  great. 

Art  I  boll  named  foolinhls  '.'  show  (hat  iboii  art  wiser  than  thy  fathers, 

Live  to  shame  their  vanity  or  sin  l>y  diiiifiil  devotion  to  thy  sphere. 

Art  Ihoii  named  discreeily '.'  it  is  well,  the  course  i^  fn^e; 

No  competitor  shall  claim  thy  colors,  neither  ti.\  his  faults  upon  Ihce: 

Ila.Ht4'n  to  the  k'oal  ol   fame  betaceii  lh<'  poofs  of  duty. 

And  \sin  u  blessing  from  the  world,  tliut  men  in.iy  love  thy  name; 


TUPPEB.  619 

[From  Indirect  Injluences.] 
THE  FORCE  OF   TRIFLES. 

A  SENTENCE  hath  formed  a  character,  and  a  character  suhdued  a  kingdom ; 
A  pictm-e  hath  ruined  souls,  or  raised  them  to  commerce  witli  the  skies. 

Planets  govern  not  the  soul,  nor  guide  the  destinies  of  man. 

But  trifles,  lighter  than  straws,  are  levers  in  tlie  building  up  of  character. 


[From  Neglect.] 

TO  MURMURERS. 

Yet  once  more,  griever  at  Neglect,  hear  me  to  thy  comfort,  or  rebuke ; 
For,  after  all  thy  just  complaint,  the  world  is  full  of  love. 

For  human  benevolence  is  large,  though  many  matters  dwarf  it, 
Pi'udenoe,  ignorance,  imposture,  and  the  straitenings  of  circumstance  and 

time. 
And  if  to  the  body,  so  to  the  mind,  the  mass  of  men  are  generous: 
Their  estimate  who  know  us  best,  is  seldom  seen  to  err: 
Be  sure  the  fault  is  thine,  as  pride,  or  shallowness,  or  vanity. 
If  all  around  thee,  good  and  bad,  neglect  thy  seeming  merit. 

Therefore  examine  thy  state,  O  self-accounted  martyr  of  Neglect, 
It  may  be,  thy  merit  is  a  cubit,  and  thy  measure  thereof  a  furlong: 
But  grant  it  greater  than  thy  thoughts,  and  grant  that  men  thy  fellows 
For  pleasun',  business,  or  interest,  misuse,  forget,  neglect  thee, — 
Still  be  thou  confjueror  in  this,  the  consciousness  of  high  deservings; 
Let  it  suffice  thee  to  be  worthy;  faint  not  thou  for  praise; 
For  that  thou  art,  be  grateful;  go  humbly  even  in  thy  confidence; 
And  set  thy  foot  on  the  neck  of  an  enemy  so  harmless  as  Neglect. 


\_From  Memory. 1 

HINTS  OF  PRE-EXISTEXCE. 

Wei!K  I  at  Petra,  could  T  not  declare.  My  soul  hath  been  here  before  me  ? 
Am  1  strange  to  the  columned  halls,  the  calm  dead  grandeur  of  Palmyra? 
Know  I  not  thy  mount,  O  rannel!     Have  I  not  voyaged  on  the  Danube 
Nor  seen  the  glan;  of  Arctic  snows,  —  nor  the  black  tents  of  the  Tartar? 
Is  it  then  a  dream,  that  I  remember  the  faces  of  them  of  old  ? 

Be  ye  my  judges,  imaginative  minds,  full-fledged  to  soar  into  the  sun. 
Whose  grosser  natural  thoughts  the  chemistry  of  wisdom  batli  sublimed, 
Have  ye  not  confessed  to  a  feelimc.  a  consciousness,  strange  and  vamie, 
That  ye  have  gone  this  way  before,  and  walk  again  yo>u-  daily  life, 
Trai'king  an  old  routine,  and  on  some  foreign  strand. 
Where  bodily  ye  have  never  stood,  tinding  your  own  footstejis  '? 
Hath  not  at  times  some  recent  friend  looked  out  an  old  familiar. 
Some  newest  circumstance  or  place  teemed  as  with  ancient  memories? 
A  startling  sudden  (lasb  lighteth  up  all  for  an  instant. 

Aiid    then    it   is   quenched,  as    in   darkness,   and    leaveth    the   cold   spirit 
trembling. 


620  TUPPER. 

[From  Xefjlect.] 

LATE    VAl.CATIOS. 

Good  inon  are  tlie  lioaltli  of  the  world,  valiud  only  when  it  perisheth; 

Like  water,  lii;ht,  and  air,  all  precions  in  their  ahsence. 

Who  hath  considered  the  blessing  of  his  breath,  till  the  poison  of  an  asthma 

struek  him  ? 
Who  hath  re;;arded  the  just  pulses  of  his  heart,  till  spasm  or  paralysis 

have  stopjted  tiiem  ? 
Even  thus,  an  unobserved  routine  of  daily  {^raee  and  wisdom, 
When  no  more  here,  had  worship  of  a  worlil,  whose  penitence  atoned  for 

its  neglect. 


[From  Myatery.] 
FOREKNO  WL  Kin; E   I'SJiES/liA ItL E. 


FoK  mystery  is  man's  life;  we  wake  to  the  whisperinjjs  of  novelty: 
And  what  though  w(!  lie  down  disapjioinled  ?  we  sleep,  Xo  wake  in  hope. 
The  letter,  or  the  news,  the  chances  and  the  changes,  matters  that  may 

happen, 
Sweeten  or  embitter  daily  life  with  the  lu)'H'y-;,'all  of  myster>'. 
For  we  walk  blindfold, — and  a  miiuite  may  be  mueh, — a  step  may  reach 

the  Jireeijiiee 


[Frtrm  T(t-/>ny.] 
LIFE. 


A  man's  life  is  a  tower,  with  a  sl.iircase  of  many  steps. 

That,  as  be  toilelli  ii|(ward,  rniuible  siucessively  liebind  him: 

No  going  back,  the  past  is  an  abyss;  no  sioppim;.  f()r  the  pr«-sent  perisheth; 

But  ever  hasting  on,  precarious  on  the  fooibold  of  To-<lay. 


[From  Ti>- Morrow.] 
THE    Hnli/>   OF   It.tSE     l.\/>    /U.E'^SI .\(!. 

Oftkn,  the  painful  ])reseiit  is  eonifotied  by  tiatleriiii,'  the  future. 

.And  kind  To-niorrow  bearetli  bait   the  burdens  of  Tu-<lav. 

To-morrow,  wbis|ieretb  weaktiess;  and  'i'o-niorrow  lindetb  him  the  weaker. 

To-morrow,  pronii'-iib  eonseieiiee:  and  l»eiioid,  no  lo-day  for  a  fulhlment. 

<>  name  of  happy  omen  unl<t  youth,  < »  bitter  word  of  terror  to  the  dotard, 

rjoal  of  folly's  lazy  wlsli.  and  sorrow's  ever-eomin«  friend. 

Fraud's  loophole.  —  caution's  hint,  —and  traji  to  citeh  the  hone.st,  — 

Tliou  w>:illii  to  many  |x»or,  disfraee  to  maiiv  noble. 

'I'liou  hope  and  fe.ir,  thou  weal  and  woe.  iboii  rei ly,  thou  ruin. 

How  thickly  swarms  of  thought  arc  clustering  round  To-morrow. 


VAUOHAN. 


621 


{From  To-M<yiTOV}.\ 
PROCRAS  TINA  TION. 

Lo,  it  is  the  even  of  To-day,  —a  day  so  lately  a  To-morrow; 

Where  are  those  high  resolves,  those  hopes  of  yesternight  ? 

O  faint  heart,  still  shall  thy  whisper  be,  To-morrow, 

And  must  the  growing  avalanche  of  sin  roll  down  that  easy  slope  ? 

Alas,  it  is  ponderous,  and  moving  on  in  might,  that  a  Sisyphus  may  not 

stop  it; 
But  haste  thee  with  the  lever  of  a  prayer,  and  stem  its  strength  To-day. 


Henry  Vaughan. 


THE  SEED  GROWING    SECRETLY. 

Dear,  secret  greenness !  nurst  below ! 
Tempests    and  winds  and  winter- 
nights 
Vex  not,  that  but  One  sees  thee  grow, 
That  One  made  all    these   lesser 
lights. 

If  those  bright  joys  He  singly  sheds 

On  thee,  were  all  met  in  one  crown, 

Both  sun  and  stars  woidd  hide  their 

heads ; 

And  moons,  though  full,  woiUd  get 

them  down. 

liCt  glory  be  their  bait  whose  minds 

Are  all  too  high  for  a  low  cell : 
Though    hawks    can    prey    thiough 
stonus  and  winds, 
The  poor  bee  in  her  hive  must 
dwell. 

Glory,  the  crowd's  cheap  tinsel,  still 
To  what   most   takes   them   is    a 
drudge ; 

And  they  too  oft  take  good  for  ill. 
And  thriving  vice  for  virtue  judge. 

What  needs  a  conscience  calm  and 
bright 
Within  itself  an  outward  test  ? 
Who  breaks  his  glass  to  take  more 
light, 
Makes  way  for  storms  into  his  rest. 


Then  bless  thy  secret  growth,  nor 
catch 
At  noise,   but  thrive  imseen  and 
dumb; 
Keep  dean,  bear  fruit,  earn  life,  and 
v.atch. 
Till  the  white- wingM  reapers  come ! 


THEY   ARE  ALL   GONE. 

TiiEY  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of 
light. 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy 
breast, 
Like  stai's  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  whicli  this 
hill  is  drest 
After  the  sim's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on   my 
days ; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull 
and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope!  and  high  humility! 

High  as  the  heavens  above! 
Tlu'se  are  your  walks,  and  you  have 
shewed  them  me 

Tc  kindle  my  cold  love. 


622 


VAUaHAN. 


Dear,  beauteous  death ;  the  jewel  of 
th«'  just! 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark; 
What   mysteries  do  He   beyond  thy 
dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

He   that   hath    found    some   fledged 
bird's  nest  may  know 
At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings 
in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter 
dreams. 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth 
sleep. 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend 
our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 


FliOM  "ClllLDnOOD." 

Dkah,  harmless  age!  the  short,  swift 
span, 

Where  weeping  virtue  parts  witli 
man ; 

Whrre  l()v<!  without  lust  dwells,  and 
Ix-nds 

Wiiat  way  we  plrasi-  without  self- 
ends. 

An  ai;<'  of  mysteries  I  wliiili  be 
Must  live  twice  that  Moultl  (iod's  f;i<  !• 

SIT ; 
Wliicb  iini;c!s  giuird,  and  with  il  play. 
Angels!  wliicli  foul  nii-n  drive  away. 


I'K.Ki:. 


Mv  soul,  Ihon-  is  a  eounfry 

Afi'ir  bcyonil  liu'  stars, 
Win-re  slamls  a  wingi'd  sentry 

All  skilful  in  lb.-  wars. 
There,  aliove  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet    Peace    sits,    crowned    with 
Kinlirs, 
And  one  Im.iii  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  lllea. 


He  is  thy  gracious  friend. 

And  [O  my  soul,  awake) 
Did  in  pun-  love  descend, 

To  die  hcri'  for  thy  sake. 
H  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  ilower  of  peace, 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither. 

The  forlress,  and  thy  ease. 
Leave,  then,  thy  fooHsh  nuige^; 

Kor  none  can  thee  secure 
liut  One.  who  never  changes. 

Thy  Ciod,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 


THE  I'vnsrir. 

I-oud!  what  a  busy,  restless  thing, 

Hasi  thou  ukmIc  man! 
Kaeh  day  and  hour  he  is  on  wing, 

|{esis  not  a  span. 
Then  having  lost  the  sim  and  light, 

Hy  clouds  surprised, 
He  keeps  a  coniinerce  in  the  night 

Willi  air  disguised, 
lladst  thou  given  to  this  active  dust 

A  stale  luilired. 
The  lost  son  had  not  left  the  husk. 

Nor  home  desir'd. 
That  was  thy  secret,  and  it  is 

Thy  niercv  too; 
For  when  all  fails  to  bring  to  bliss, 

'I'hen  this  must  do. 
Ah,  Lord!  and  what  a  purchase  will 

that  l)e. 
To  take  us  sick,  that  sound  would  not 
Uike  thee ! 


inoM  ••>/•.  mm;)  maodalfx." 

t'UKAr,  ndi;hly  art!  her  art  of  love, 
Who   loved   much,  and    much  more 

eoldd  move; 
Her  art !  uliose  memory  must  last 
I'ill    trulb    through  all  the  world  hn 

past ; 
Till  his  aliused,  tlespiseil  Ilann> 
lletinn    to    heaven    from    whence    il 

came, 
And   send   a   lire    down,    that    shall 

bring 
Destruction  on  his  ruddy  win^. 


V AUG  HAN, 


623 


Eer   art!    whose   pensive,  weeping 

eyes 
Were  once  sin's  loose  and  tempting 

spies ; 
But  now  are  fixed  stars,  wliose  light 
Helps  such  dark  stragglers  to  their 

sight. 

Self-boasting  Pharisee !  how  blind 
A  judge  wert  thou,  and  how  unkind ! 
It  was  impossible,  that  thou, 
Who   wert  all   false,  should' st  true 

grief  know. 
Is't  just  to  judge  her  faithful  tears 
By  that  foul  rheum   thy  false  eye 

wears  ? 
"  This  woman,"  say'st  thou,  "  is  a 

sinner!" 
And  sate  there  none  such  at  thy  din- 
ner? 
Go,  leper,  go  1  wash  till  thy  flesh 
Comes  like  a  child's,   spotless  and 

fresh ; 
He  is  still  leprous  that  still  paints: 
Who  saint  themselves,  they  are  no 
saints. 


FROit  THE  "  CHRISTIAN  POLITICIAN." 

Co.ME,  then,  rare  politicians  of  the 

time, 
Brains  of  some  standing,  ciders  in  our 

clime, 
See  here  the  method.     A  wise,  solid 

state 
Is  ((uiek  in  acting,  friendly  in  debate, 
Joint  in  advice,  in  resolutions  just. 
Mild  in  success,  true  to  the  common 

tnist. 
It  cements  ruptures,  and  by  gentle 

liiuid 
Allays  the   heat  and  burnings  of  a 

land.  [tract 

Religion   guides   it;    and   in  all   the 
Designs  so  twist,  that    Heaven  con- 
firms the  act. 
If  from   these   lists  you  wander,  as 

you  steer, 
Look  back,  and  catechize  your  actions 

here. 
These  are  the  marks  to  which  tnie 

statesmen  tend, 
And  greatness   here   with  gootlness 

hath  one  end. 


PROVIDENCE. 

Sacred  and  secret  hand! 
By  whose  assisting,  swift  command 
The  angel  shewed  thai  holy  well. 
Which  freed  i^oor  Hagar  from  her 

fears, 
And  turn'd  to  smiles  the  begging 
tears 
Of  young,  distressed  Ishmael. 

How,  in  a  mystic  cloud 
Which  doth  thy  strange,  sure  mercies 

shroud. 
Dost    thou    convey    man   food    and 
money, 
Unseen  by  him  till  they  arrive 
Just  at  his  mouth,  that  thankless 
hive, 
AVhich  kills   thy  bees,  and  eats  thy 
honey I 

If  I  thy  sei-yant  be. 
Whose  service  makes  even  captives 

free, 
A  fish  shall  all  my  tribute  pay. 

The  swift-winged  raven  shall  bring 

me  meat. 
And   I   like  flowers   shall  still  go 
neat, 
As  if  I  knew  no  month  but  May. 

I  will  not  fear  what  man, 
With  ail  his  plots  and  ixnver.  can. 
Bags  that  wax  old  may  plundered  be; 
But  none  can  seijuester  or  let 
A  state  that  with  the  sun  doth  set. 
And  comes  next  morning  fresh  as  hi-. 

Poor  birds  this  doctrine  sing. 
And    lierhs   which   on   dry   hills    do 

spring. 
Or  in  the  howling  w  ilderness 
Do  know  thy  dewy  morning  hoius 
And  watch  all  night  for  mists  or 
showers. 
Then  drink  and  praise  thy  bounteous- 
ness. 

May  he  for  ever  die 
Who  tnists  not  thei^l  but  Avrelehedly 
Hxmts  gold  and  wealth,  and  will  nut 
lend 
Thy  service  nor  Ma  sunl  one  day! 


624 


VAUOHAN. 


May  his  crown,  like  his  hopos  W 
clay ; 
And,  what  ho   saves,  may   liis  foes 
spend ! 

If  all  my  portion  here, 
The  measure  siven  by  theeeaeh  year, 
Were  i)y  my  eaiiselesa  enemies 
Usurped,  it  never  should  mo  f;ni've 
Who   know   how    well   thou  canst 
relieve 
Whose  hantls  are  open  as  thine  eyes. 

Great  King  of  love  and  truth! 
Who  would'st  not  hate  my  froward 

youth. 
And  wilt  not  leave  me  when  grown 
old; 
CJladly  will  I,  like  ]*ontie  sheep, 
I'nto  my  wormwooil  di<t  keep, 
►Sinee  tlmu  hast   ni.id<'  Ihy  ann  my 
fold. 


SUNDA  VS. 

liuiaiiT  shadows  of  true  rest!  some 

shdols  i»f  bliss; 

Heaven  onee  a  week; 
The  next  wnrM's  gladness  prepossesl 

in  this; 

.\  day  to  .seek; 
Eternity  in  lime;  the  steps  by  which 
We  elimb  above  all  ages;  lamps  that 

li«bt 
Man  through  his  heap  of  dark  days; 

and  tin;  rich 
And   full  redem))tion   of    the    whole 

week's  lliglit ! 

The    pulleys    tmto    headlong    man  ; 

time's  bower; 
The  narrow  way ; 
Transplanted  I'aradise;   (tod's  walk- 

inu-hour; 
The  cool  o'lir  day! 
The    crealure'.s   jubilee;  (ttMl'H  ])arle 

with  dust; 
Ileavi-n  here;  man  <in  those  hills  of 

mirth  and  (lowers; 
Angels   descending;    the   returns   of 

trust : 
A    gleam    «>f    l;1oi7    after    8ix-<Iays- 

showen*! 


The  ehiueh's  love-feasts;  time's  pre« 

rogative. 
And  interest 
Deducted  from  the  whole;  the  combs 

and  hive, 

Aiul  home  of  rest; 
The    milky    way    chalke<l    out    with 

suns;  a  clue, 
That    guides  tlirouirh    erring   hours; 

and  in  full  story 
A    taste    of    heaven    on    earth;    tlie 

lileii^e  and  cue 
Of  a  full  feast;  and  the  out-courts  of 

glory. 


TlfE  SHOWER. 

Watkhs  above!  eternal  springs! 
The    dew    that    silvers    tlie    I)ove'8 


wings 


C)  welcome,  welcome,  to  the  sad ! 
(live    dry    dust    drink,    drink    that 

makes  glad. 
Many  fair  eveidngs,  many  flowers 
Sweetened  with  rich  and  gentle  show- 
ers, 
Have  1  enjoyed;  and  down  have  run 
.Many  a  line  and  .shining  sun; 
IJut  never,  till  this  happy  hour, 
Was    blest    with    such    an    evening 
shower! 


FltOM  "laU.KS  ASI)  LKSSOSS." 

\\  iiKN  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy 

.soul  leave 
I'o  do  the  like;  oui  luxlies  but  forerun 
I'he  spirit's  duly.    True  hearts  spread 

and   Ik  ;i\e 

Into  their  (iod,  u>  tlowers  do  to  the 

sun. 
(iive  him  thy  first  thoughts  then; 

so  shall  thou  keep 
lliiu  (-(impaiiy  all  day,  and   in   Idui 

sleep. 

Vet  nevi-r  sleep  the  siui  uj*.     Traycr 

should 
Dawn  Willi  the  day.      There  art'  wt. 

axNfid  hours 
'Twixt  Ik. IS  ell  and  Us.       The  iiiaiiiiu 

wiis  iiol  good 


VAUOHAN. 


625 


After    siin-rising  ;     far-tlay    sullies 

flowers. 
Rise  to  prevent  the  sun ;  sleep  doth 

sins  glut, 
And  lieaven's  gate  opens  when  this 

world's  is  shut. 

Serve  God  before  the  world;   let  him 
not  go, 

Unti'  thou  hast  a  blessing;  then  re- 
sign 

The  whole  unto  him ;  and  remember 
who 

Prevail' d   by  wrestling  ere  the  sun 
did  shine. 
Pour  oil  upon  the  stones;  w'eepfor 

tliy  si'i; 
Then  jonrnoy  on,  and  have  an  eye 
to  lieaveu. 

When    the    world's    up,    and  every 

swarm  abroad, 
Keep  thou  tliy  leniper;  mix  not  witli 

each  clay ; 
Dispatch  necessities;  life  hath  a  load 
Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely 

may. 
Yet  keep  those  cares  ■without  thee, 

let  the  heart 
3e   Go<rs  alone,  and   choose  the 

better  part. 

.o  God,  thy  country,  and  thy  friend 

be  true ; 
if   priest   and   people  change,   keep 

thou  tliy  ground. 
Who  sells  religion  is  a  ,ludas  Jew; 
And,  oaths  once  broke,  the  soul  can- 
not be  soimd. 
The  perjurer's  a  devil   let  loose: 

what  can 
Tie  ui)  his  hands,  that  dares  mock 
God  and  man  ? 

Seek  not  the   same  steps  with   the 

crowd ;  stick  tliou 
To  thy  st:re  trot;  a  constant,  humble 

mii'd 
Is  both  hi ;  own  joy,  and  his  Maker's 

'00 ; 
I>ct  folly  dust  it  on,  or  lag  behind. 
A  sweet  self-privacy  in  a  right  soid 
Outruns  the  earth,  and   lines  the 

utmost  pole. 


To  all  that  seek  thee  bear  an  open 

heart ; 
Make  not  thy  breast  a  labyrinth  or 

trap; 
If  trials  come,  this  will  make  good 

thy  part. 
For  honesty  is  safe,  come  what  can 

hap; 
It  is  the  good    man's   feast,   the 

prince  of  flowers, 
Which  thrives  in  storms,  and  smells 

best  after  showers. 


Spend  not  an  hour  so  as  to  weep  an- 
other. 

For  tears  are  not  thine  cwn;  if  thou 
giv'st  words, 

Dash  not  with  them  thy  friend,  nor 
heaven;  oh,  smother 

A  viperous  thought;  some  syllables 
are  swords. 
Unbitted  tongues  are  in  their  pres- 
ence double ; 
They  shame  their  owners,  and  their 
hearers  trouble. 


When  night  comes,  list  thy  deeds; 

make  i)lain  the  way 
'Twixt  heaven  and  thee;  block  it  not 

with  delays ; 
r>ut  i)erfect  all  before  thou  sleep' st; 

then  say, 
"  There's  one  sun  more  strmig  on  njy 

bead  of  days." 
AMiat's  good  score  up  for  joy;  the 

bad  Mell  scann'd 
Wash  off  with  tears,  and  get   thy 

Master's  hand. 


Thy  accotints  thus  made,  spend  in  the 

grave  one  hour 
Before  thy  time;  be  not  a  stranger 

there. 
Where  thou  may'st  sleep  whole  ages; 

life's  poor  flower 
Lasts  not  a  night  sometimes.     Bad 

spirits  fear 
This   ('(mversation;    but   the   goud 

man  lii-s 
Entombt'd    many   days    before    be 

dies. 


('.26 


VAUUUAN. 


Being  laid,  and  drowsed  for  sleep,  close 

not  tliy  "j't'S 
Uj)  witli  thy  ciiiiains;  give  thy  soul 

thi'  uiiii: 
[n  some  good  thoughts;  so  when  thy 

il;iy  sliall  rise, 
\\\i\    thou    uni-aiiest  thy    lire,    those 

-parks  will  l>ring 
Xt'w  llauies;    besides  where  these 

li)ilj;c.  vain  lu'als  mourn 
And  die;:  tliat  i)usii,  where  God  is, 

shall  nui  l)u:n. 


TO  HIS  BOOKS. 

iJitKinr  hooks  I   the  perepectives  to 

om-  weak  sights. 
The  elcar  innjections  of    discerning 

li-hi'^. 
riiuiiiii^  and  sliining  tlioughts,  man's 

jiosthnme  day, 
rill-   track   of   fled   souls,   and   their 

milky  way,  voi<t' 

Tiie   dead    alive  and   busy,  the   still 
(If    rnlari.'«'d   sjiirits,   kind    IleaveiTs 

while  decoys  I 
\\']\i>  lives  wi;h  you  lives  like  those 

know  iiiij  llowrrs, 
\\hiiji  ill  conimerec  with  light  spend 

all  their  iiours; 
^VIlieh  shut  to  clouds,  and  shadows 

nieely  shun, 
15ut   with    i;lad   haste  imveil  to  kiss 

the  sun.  (night, 

nenealii  you  all  is  dark,  and  a  dead 
\Vhich  whoM)   lives   in,  wants   both 

liealtli  and  sight. 
iJy  sucking  you,  the  wise,  like  bees, 

do  grow 
Healing'  and   rich,  though  this  they 

do  most  slow, 
Hccau.sc  most  choicely;  for  as  great  a 

store 
[lave  we  of  books  an  bees  of  herb», 

oi  moro" 


And  the  great  task  to  try,  then  know, 

the  good. 
To    discern    weeds,    and     judge    ol 

wholesome  food. 
Is  a  rare  scant    performance.     For 

man  dies 
Oft  ere  'tis  done,  while  the  bee  feetls 

and  flies. 
But  you  were  all  choice  llt)wers:  all 

set  and  dressed 
By  old  sage  florists,  who  well  knew 

tlie  "best; 
Alul    I   amid-t    you  all  am  tiumd  a 

weed, 
"Sol  wanting  knowledge,  but  for  want 

of  heed. 
Then  thank  thyself,  wild  fool,  that 

woidd'st  not  be 
(  oMtent    to    know'  —  what    was    too 

much  for  thee  I 


LIKE  AS  A   AUnSR. 

Even  as  a  nurse,  whose  child'K  im- 
patient ]>ace 

fan  hardly  lead  his  feet  from  i>laco 
to  place, 

I^eaves  her  fond  kissing,  sets  him 
down  to  go. 

Nor  does  uphold  iiim  for  a  stej)  or 
two; 

Hut  when  she  (inds  that  he  bei;lns  to 
fall. 

.She  b(d<ls  him  u]>  and  kisses  liim 
w  ilhal: 

So  (tod  from  man  sometimes  with- 
draws his  hand 

Awhile,  to  tea<-h  his  infant  faith  to 
stand : 

Hut  when  He  sees  his  f«eble  strength 
begin 

To  full.    He    gently   lakes    him    up 

again. 


VERY. 


627 


Jones  Very. 


NATURE. 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when 
I  come  by, 

Because  my  feet  find  measure  with 
its  call; 

The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they 
love  is  nigh, 

For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great 
and  small. 

The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hill- 
side grows 

Expects  me  there  when  spring  its 
bloom  has  given ; 

And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wan- 
derings knows, 

And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars 
of  heaven; 

For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks 
aright, 

iShall  be  their  lord  as  Adam  was  be- 
fore ; 

His  ear  shall  catch  each  sovmd  with 
new  delight, 

y.ivh  object  wear  the  dress  that  then 
it  wore; 

And  he,  a:,!  when  erect  in  soul  he 
stood, 

Ihar  from  his  Father's  lips  that  ah 
is  good. 


THE    WORLD. 

i'ls  all  a  great  show. 

The  world  that  we're  in  — 
Xone  can  tell  when  'twas  finished. 

\oiie  saw  it  begin; 
>I>'ii  wander  and  gaze  through 

Its  <'ourts  and  its  halls, 
liike  children  whose  love  is 

The  picture-hung  walls. 

There  are  flowers  in  the  meadow , 
There  are  clouds  in  the  sky  — 

iSongs  pour  from  the  woodland, 
The  waters  glide  by: 


Too  many,  too  many 

For  eye  or  for  ear. 
The  sights  that  we  see, 

And  the  somids  that  we  hear, 

A  weight  as  of  slumber 

Comes  down  on  the  mind; 
So  swift  is  life's  train 

To  its  objects  we're  blind; 
I  myself  am  but  one 

In  the  fleet-gliding  show  — 
Like  others  I  walk, 

But  know  not  where  I  go. 

One  saint  to  another 

I  heard  say  "  How  long?" 
I  listened,  but  nought  more 

I  heard  of  his  song; 
The  shadows  are  walking 

Through  city  and  plain,— 
How  long  shall  the  night 

And  its  shadow  remain  ? 

How  long  ere  shall  shine, 

In  this  glimmer  of  things. 
The  light  of  which  prophet 

In  i)ro])h('('y  sings  '? 
And  the  gates  of  that  city 

Be  open,  whose  sun 
Xo  more  to  the  west 

Its  circuit  shall  run ! 


HOME  AND  HEAVEN. 

With  the  same  letter  heaven  and 
home  begin, 

And  the  words  dwell  together  in  the 
nund; 

For  they  who  would  a  home  in  heav- 
en win. 

Must  first  a  heaven  in  home  begin  to 
find. 

r>e  happy  here,  yet  with  a  humble 
soul  * 

That  looks  for  perfect  happiness  iu 
heaven; 


i;-i8 


WALLER. 


For  what  thou  hast  is  earnest  of  the 

whole 
Which   to   the  faithful   shall  :it    last 

be  given. 
As  once   the   patriarch,  in   a  vision 

blessed, 
Saw  the  swift   augels  hastening  to 

and  fro, 


And  the  lone  spot  whereon  he  lay  t* 

rest 
Became  to  him  the  ji;itc  of  heaven 

below; 
So  may  to   thcc,  wlicii  life   itsdl    i- 

(lone, 
Thy  home  on  earth  and  heaven  above 

be  one. 


Edmund  Waller. 


OLD  AGE  AXD  DEATH. 

The  seas  are  quiet  wlien  the  winds 
give  o'er; 

.So  calm  are  \\v  when  pa.ssions  are  no 
more.  jto  boast 

For  I  lien  we  know  how  vain   it  was 

Of  tlceting  things,  too  certain  to  in- 
lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  youn.:cr 

eyes 
t'onceal    that    emptiness    which    age 

descries. 
The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and 

decayed. 
I-ets   in   new   ligiit    thmugh    chinks 

that  time  lias  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  be- 
come, I  home. 
As  they  draw   near  to   their  eternal 
Leaving  tin-  old,  both  worlds  at  once 

they  view. 

That  staml  upon  the  threshold  of  tin' 
new. 


THE  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose! 
Tell  lier  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be 

Tell  her  that's  young. 
And  shims  to  have  her  graces  si)ied, 

Thai  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
i'liou  must  have  unconuncndcd  died 

Small  is  the  wortli 
Of  beauty  from  (he  light  retired; 

IJid  her  com*'  foilh  — 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

'I'heu  die.  that  she 
The  coMunon  fate  i>{  all  things  ran» 

May  r<'ad  in  tliee  — 
llov,'  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
Tliat  are  mi  wondrous  sweet  and  fair 


OA'   .1   r.initI.E. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confinod 
.Shall  now  my  joyful  temjdes  biml: 
No  nion.ireb  but  wnuld  yive  liis  crown, 
His  arms  miglit  do  what  (his  has  done. 

It  was  n>y  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  tb.it  lovely  dear, 
My  joy.  my  griif.  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  tills  circle  move. 

.\  fiarrow  com|i;iss,  and  yet  tliere 
Dwelt  all  (ha('sgood  and  all  ibat's  fair; 
(iive  me  but  what  this  riband  lioinid. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  bUn  goes  round. 


WEBSTER. 


629 


Augusta  Webster. 


FROM  "A   PREACHER.'' 

I  KNOW  not  how  it  is; 

I  take  the  faith  in  earnest,  1  believe, 

Even  at  happy  times  I  think  I  love, 

I  try  to  pattern  me  upon  tlie  type 

,My  Master  left  us,  am  no  liypocrite 

Playing  my  soul  against  good  men's 
applause, 

Nor  monger  of  the  Gospel  for  a  cure, 

But  serve  a  Master  whom  I  chose 
because 

It  seemed  to  me  1  loved  Him,  whom 
till  now 

My  longing  is  to  love;  and  yet  1  feel 

A  falseness  somewhere  clogging  me. 
I  seem 

Divided  from  myself;  I  can  speak 
words 

Of  bm'ning  faith  and  fire  myself  with 
tiiem; 

I  can,  while  upturned  faces  gaze  on 
me 

As  if  I  were  their  Gospel  manifest, 

Break  into  unplanned  turns  as  natu- 
ral 

As  the  blind  man's  cry  for  healing, 
pass  beyond 

My  boimded  manhood  in  the  earnest- 
ness 

Of  a  messenger  from  God.  And  then 
I  come 

And  in  my  study's  quiet  find  again 

The  callous  actor  who,  because  long 
since 

lie  had  some  feelings  in  him  like  the 
talk 

The  book  puts  in'  his  mouth,  still 
warms  his  pit 

And  oven,  in  his  luckv  moo<ls,  him- 
self. 

With  the  passion  of  liis  pari,  but 
lays  aside 

His  liciolsiM  with  his  satin  suit 

And  tliinks  "  the  part  is  good  and 
well  oonooived 

And  very  natural  —  no  flaw  to  find" 

And  then  forgets  it. 


Yes,  I  preach  to  others 
And  am  —  I  know  not  what  —  a  casl- 

away  ? 
No,  but  a  man  who  feels  his  heart 

asleep, 
As  he  might  feel  his  hand  or  foot. 


To-night  now  I  might  triumph.    Not 

a  breath 
But   shivered   when    I  pictured   the 

dead  soul 
Awakening  ^hcn  the  body  dies,   to 

know 
Itself  has  lived  too  late;  and  drew  in 

long 
With  yearning  when  I  showed  how 

perfect  love 
Might  make  Earth's  self  be  but  an 

earlier  Heaven. 
And  I  may  say  and  not  be  over-bold, 
Judging  from  former  frvuts,  "Some 

one  to-night 
Has  come  more  near  to  God,  some 

one  has  felt 
What   it  may   mean   to   love  Him, 

some  one  learned 
A  new  great  hoiTor  against  death 

and  sin. 
Some     one    at    least  —  it    may    be 

many." 

And  yet,  I  know  not  why  it  is,  this 

knack 
Of    sermon-making  seems   to   carry 

me 
Athwart  the  truth  at  times  before  \ 

know  — 
In  little  things  at  least;  thank  God 

the  greater 
Have  not  yet  grown,  by  the  familiar 

use. 
Such  puppets  of  a  phrase  as  to  slip 

by 
Without  eli'ar  recognition.     Take  lu- 

night  — 
I  prcaclird  a  careful  sermon,  gravely 

planned, 


630 


WEBS  TEE. 


All   of   it  wriUen.      Not  a  line  was 

lllOJlIlt 

To  fit  iIk'  mood  of  any  dilTt  ring 
From  my   own  jiulgmciit:    not   the 

Ii'ss  I  liml  — 
(I  thontilii  of  it  cominj;  home  while 

my  irood  .lane 
Talked  of  the  bluUlami  pony  I  must 

iiet 
For  tlie  l)oys  to  li'arn  to  n<lo:)  yos, 

here  it  is. 
And  licre  again  on  tliis  page  —  l)Iame 

by  rote. 
Wlierc   l)y   my   i>rivali'   judgment    I 

blame  not. 
'•  We  think  our  own  thoughts  on  this 

•lay."  1  said, 
"  llarndess  it   may  be,  kindly  even. 

still 
Not  Heaven's  thoughts  —  not  Sunday 

thoughts  ril  say." 
\\\']\  now,  do  I,  now  that  1  think  of 

it, 
Advise  a  separation  of  our  thoughts 
liy  Sundays  and  by  week-days,  Heav- 
en's and  ours? 
Kv  no  means,  for  I  think  the  bar  is 

bad. 
I'll    teaeh    my    children    "  Keep   all 

thinkings  pure. 
And  think  tliem  when  you   like,  if 

but  the  time 
Is   free   to  any  thinking.     Think  ol 

(Sod 
So  often  that  in  anything  you  do 
It  eannot  seem   you   have  forgotten 

Ilim. 
.lust  as  you  would  not  have  forgotten 

us. 
Your  mother  and    myself,  although 

your  ihou'^lits 
Were  not  liistinctly  on  us,  while  you 

playi  d: 
And.  if  you  <lo  this,  in  the  Siuidiiy''* 

r.-^t 
Vou    will    most     naturally    think    of 

Him." 

1  In-n   here  again  "tin-  pliasures  of 

the  world 
That  tfm|>l  ilie  y')ungei- im-mbirs  of 

mv  lloek. 
Now]  lliiiik   naily  that   they've  not 

Clioiigb 


Of  these  same  pleasures.     (Jray  and 

joyless  lives 
A  many  of  them  have,  whom  I  would 

see 
.Sharing  the  natural  gayetie-  of  vouth. 
1   wish    they'd    more  temptations  of 

the  kind. 

Now  Donne  and   Allan  preach  sueh 

things  as  these 
Meaning  them  and  iH'lieving.    As  for 

me. 
What  did  I  mean  ?    Neither  to  feign 

nor  teaeii 
A  riiansaie  service.    'Twas  just  this. 
That  there  are  lessons  and  rebukes 

long  made 
So  much  a  thing  of  coui^e  that,  un- 

observing. 
One  sets  them  i\ln\n  as  one  puts  dots 

to  ("s. 

( 'rosse>  to  /"s. 


[  /■'mill  A  I'liiutrr.] 

riiF.  Aurisr-s  diikai)  of  ni.f.\/t- 

XKSS. 

How  one  can  live  on  beauty  ami  l>e 

rich 
Having  only  thai!  —  a  thing  not  hard 

to  (ind. 
Kor  all    the    world    is   beauty.       We 

know  that. 
We    i)ainteiN,    ,ve  whom  (iod    shows 

how  to  see. 
We   have    beauty   onrs,    we   lake    it 

when-  we  go. 
.\v,  mv  wise  rriiics,  rob  me  of   my 

br.ad. 
Vou  can  do  that,   but    of   my  birlh- 

ri'Jit,  no. 
lmi«rison    me   away  from  skies   and 

seas. 
And  llie  opm  sight  of  carlb  atid   Iht 

rieb  life, 
.\llil    the    le>stin    of   a    face   or  vroMeli 

hair: 
I'll  tind  it  for  you  on  a  whitewashed 

wall. 
Where  file  slow  shadows  only  change 

so  nnieli 
Ah    shows    the   street   has   different 

darkuesnes 
.\t  noontime  and  at  twiliglit. 


WEBSTER. 


631 


Only  tliat 
Coukl  make  me  poor  of  beauty  which 

1  dread 
Sometimes,   I   know   not  why,   save 

that  it  is 
The  one   tiling   which   I   could  not 

bear,  not  bear 
Even  with    I'aith  by  me,   even    for 

Ruth's  sake  — 
If  this  perpetual  plodding  with  the 

brush 
Should  blind  my  fretted  eyes! 


ON  THE   LAKE. 

A   SUMMER  mist   on   the  mountain 
heights, 
A  golden  haze  in  the  sky, 
A   glow  on   the    shore   of    sleeping 
lights. 
And  shadows  lie  heavily. 

Far  in  the  valley  the  town  lies  still. 
Dreaming  asleep  in  the  glare, 

Dreamily  near  i)urs  the  drowsy  rill, 
Dreams  are  afloat  in  the  air. 

Dreaming  above  us  the  languid  sky, 
Dn^iming  the  slumbering  lake, 

And  we  who  rest  floating  listlessly, 
Say,  love,  do  we  dream  or  wake  ? 


THE  GIFT. 

0  HAPPY  glow,  O  sun-bathed  tree, 
<)  golden-lighted  river, 

A  love-gift  has  been  given  me. 
And  which  of  you  is  giver? 

1  came  upon  you  something  sad. 
Musing'  a  mournful  measme, 

Xov,-  .mH  my  heart  in  me  is  clad 
With  a  quick  sense  of  pleasure. 


I  came  upon  you  with  a  heart 
Ilalf-sick  of  life's  vexed  story, 

And  now  it  grows  of  you  a  part, 
Steeped  in  your  golden  gloiy. 

A  smile  into  my  heart  has  crept 
And  laughs  through  all  my  being, 

New  joy  into  my  life  has  leapt, 
A  joy  of  only  seeing! 

O  happy  glow,  O  sun-bathed  tree, 

()  golden-lighted  river, 
A  love-gift  has  been  given  me. 

And  which  of  you  is  giver  ? 


TWO  MAIDENS. 

Two  maidens  listening  to  the  sea  — 
The  younger  said   "  The  waves  art 

glad. 
The  waves  are  singing  as  they  break.'" 

The  elder  s])ake: 
"Sister,  their  murmur  sounds  to  me 

So  very  sad." 

Two  maidens  looking  at  a  grave  — 
One  smiled,  "A  place  of  happy  sleep. 
It  would  be  happy  if  1  slept." 

The  younger  wei>t : 
"Oh,  save  me  from  the  rest  you  crave, 

So  lone,  so  deep." 

Two  maidens  gazing  into  life  — 
The  younger  said,  "  It  is  so  fair. 
So  warm   with   light  and   love  and 
pride." 

The  elder  sighed : 
"  It  seems  to  me  so  vexed  with  strife, 

So  cold  and  bare." 

Two  maidens  face  to  face  with  death: 
The  elder  said,  "  With  quiet  bliss 
Upon  his  breast  I  lay  my  head." 

The  younger  said : 
"  His  kiss  has  frozen  all  my  breath, 

Mant  I  be  his  ? ' ' 


632 


\\  t6LLi: 


Charles  Wesley. 


sTAXZAS  FROM  •'THE    11; IF    fSK 
OF  MUSIC- 

LlSTEi*  info  the  caiisf  of  mii, 

Why  slioiild  a  iiooil  be  evil  ? 
.Music,  :ila.sl  too  long  has  been 

I'rosseil  to  obey  the  devil  — 
Drunken,  or  lewil,  or  h,i,'ht.  the  lay 

Flowed  to  the  soul's  undoing  — 
Widened,  and  strewed  with  jfowers, 
the  way 

Down  to  eternal  ruin. 

Who  on  the  part  of  Go*!  will  rise, 

Innocent  souiul  recover  — 
Fly  on  the  jirey,  and  take  thejjrize, 

Plunder  the  carnal  lover  — 
Strij)  him  of  every  niovinj^  strain, 

KvciT  lufltinf;  inea-^un  — 
Music  in  virtue's  cause  reuiin, 

Hescue  the  holy  pleasiue  ? 

Conie,  let  us  try  if  Jesus'  love 

Will  not  as  well  inspire  us; 
This  is  the  theme  of  those  ai)ove  — 

This  upon  larth  shall  lin-  us. 
.'^ay.  if  your  ht'ai-l,s  ar»'  timed  to  shi^ 

Is  ilu-re  a  subject  preater '<• 
Harmony  all  its  strains  may  bring; 

•lesiis'  name  is  sweeter. 


77/A    o.VA  )'   in: HI'. 

ruiMHT.  whose  Klor>'  fills  the  skies, 
Cliilst,  the  true,  the  only  Lifjht, 

Sim  of  Kiv'hteou'-nesM,  arise. 

Triumph  o'er  tlie  shades  of  ni;jlit  I 

l»»y-«])rin2  from  on  hiRli.  be  n-ar! 

Day-stjir,  in  my  hi'arf  appear! 

Dark  and  cheerless  is  the  mum 

I'lia' eompanied  by   Tlu'e; 
Joyless  i,  till*  day's  return 

Till   Tby  mercy's  beams  I  see. 
Till  lliey  inward  liijb!  impart, 
filad  my  eyes  and  warm  my  heart. 


Visit,  then,  this  soul  of  mine. 
Pierce  the  gloom  of  slu  and  grief! 

Fill  me,  Kadiancy  Divine, 
•Scatter  all  my  "unbelief  ! 

More  and  more  Thyself  display* 

.Shining  to  the  perfect  day. 


JESUS,  I.OVEIi  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul. 

Let  me  t«  Thy  bosom  fly. 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll. 

While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh.' 
Hide  me,  ()  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past: 
Safe  into  Thy  haven  guide  — 

()  receive  my  soul  at  last! 

Oilier  refii'je  have  I  none  — 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee: 
Leave,  all!  leave  me  not  alone  — 

Still  siijijiort  and  comfort  me. 
All  my  tnist  on  Thee  is  stayed, 

.Ml  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring: 
f'over  my  defenceless  hea<I 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. 

Wilt  Tlioii  not  regard  my  call  ? 

Wilt   Tboii  not  legjiid  inv  prayer? 
I.o!  I  sink.  I  faint.  I  fall — 

Lo!  on  Thee  1  cast  my  care; 
l{ea<b  me  out   Tby  gnicious  hand, 

\Vbile  I  of  Tli>  stri-iii;lh  receive! 
liojiing  against  Jio|i«-  I  stand  — 

Dsing,  and  behold  1  live. 


I  iioii.  (t  Christ,  art  all  I  w.itit  — 

More  than  all  in  Tbi'c  I  liiid; 
b'aise  ibe  fallen,  cheer  the  faint. 

Ileal  the  sick,  ami  lead  the  blind. 
•  Iii^t  and  holy  is  Thy  name  — 

I  am  all  imrighteoiisness; 
False,  and  full  of  sin  I  am:  — 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 


WHEELEB. 


633 


Plenteous     grace 
found, — 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound  — 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art  — 

Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee ; 
Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart  — 

Kise  to  all  eternity. 


with     Thee     is  !  Our  life  is  a  dream;  our  time,  as  a 
stream, 
Glid-s  swiftly  away; 
And  the  fugitive  moment  refuses  to 
stay. 


COME,  LET  US  ANEW. 

Come,  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue. 

Roll  round  with  the  year, 
A.nd  never  stand  still,  till  the  Master 
appear. 

His  adorable  will  let  us  gladly  fulfil, 

And  our  talents  improve, 
By  the   patience   of   hope,  and   the 
labor  of  love. 


The  arrow  is  flown;  the  moment  is 
gone; 
The  millennial  year 
Rushes  on  to  our  view,  and  eternity's 
here. 

0  that  each  in  the  day  of  his  coming 

may  say, 
"  I  have  fought  my  way  through ; 

1  have  finished  the  work  thou  didst 

give  me  to  do." 

O  that  each,  from  his  Lord,  may  re- 
ceive the  glad  word, 
'•  Well  and  faithfully  done; 
'•  Enter  into  my  joy,  and  sit  do^vn  on 
my  throne." 


Ella  Wheeler. 


SECliETS. 

Think  not  some  knowledge  rests  with  thee  alone. 
Why,  even  God's  stupendous  secret,  Death, 
We  one  by  one,  with  our  expiring  breath. 
Do,  pale  with  wonder,  seize  and  make  our  own. 
The  bosomed  treasures  of  the  earth  are  shown 
Despite  her  careful  hiding;  and  the  air 
Yields  its  mysterious  marvels  in  despair, 
To  swell  the  mighty  storehouse  of  things  known. 

In  vain  th(^  sea  expostulates  and  raves; 
It  cannot  cover  from  the  keen  world's  sight 
The  curious  wondcjrs  of  its  coral  caves. 
And  so,  desi)ile  thy  ••aulion  or  thy  tears. 
The  prying  fingers  of  detective  years 
Shall  drag  thy  secret  out  into  the  light. 


634 


WHITE. 


Blanco  White. 


TO  yiuiiT. 

Mystertoi's  \ight!  when  our  (irst  i  An«l  lol  croation  widened  in  man's 

l)ar<'iit  knt'w  |  view. 

Thee  from  report  divino,  and  heard    Wlio  could  have  thouijht  such  durk- 

thynamo;  lu'ss  lay  concealed 

Did  he  not   tremhle   for  this   lovely    Within    Ihy  heams,  O  Sun!  or  who 

frame.  j  cduld  find. 

This  glorious    canopy  of  light   and  I  While  ily.  and  leaf,  and  insect  lay  re- 


hlue  ? 

Yet  'neath  the  ciutain  of  transhiceut 
iK'w, 

Ballied  in  (he  rays  of  the  great  set- 
ting (lame, 

Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven 
came, 


vcaled. 

i'hal    to    such    countless  orhs  ihou 

madest  us  hliud! 
Wliy  do  we.  then,  shun  Death  with 

anxit>us  strife '.' — 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore 

not  Life  ? 


Henry  Kirke  White. 


TO  AS  r.Aiii.Y  riintnosE. 

MiM)  otTspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen 

sire! 
Whose   moitesl    form,    so    delicately 
(inc. 
Was  muNcd  in  whirling  storms. 
And  cradled  in  tlie  winds. 

Thee  wlien  young  .Sjjring  lirst  <|ues- 

li«ined  Winter's  Hway. 
And  dared  the  stunly  hhistcrerto  the 
lii^ht. 
ihee  on  this  hank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  vict(»r>'. 

In  this  Inw  vaie,  tin*  j)ronnse  of  (he 

year. 
Serene,  llioti  opencsl  to  the  nijtpitig 
Kale, 
rniioticcd  and  alone, 
Tliy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  lilooms,  hrouglit  forth  amid 
I  he  storms 

l)f  chill  adversity,  in  s<mie  lone  walk 
Of  life  h|i.'  rears  her  liead, 
Ob.scure  and  tmol)ser\ed ; 


While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on 

her  blows, 
(hastens     her     sjxHle.ss     purity     of 

breast. 
And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  \\u-   ills   (it    life. 


SOLITIDK. 

It  is  not  (hat  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  (ear  (o  (low; 
It  is  not  ;,'rief  thai  bids  me  moan. 
It  is  that   I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  L,'l<'ns  I  love  to  roam, 
Wlien    (111'    lired    bed^cr    hies    him 

home; 
Or  by  (he  woodland  pool  (o  rest, 
Whi-n   pale   the    K(4ir    looks    on    i(a 

bre.iHl. 

^'et  when  the  silent  evenint;  sighs. 
With  hallowed  :ijrs  and  sym|ihoide8, 
.My  spirit  lakes  anollier  lime. 
And  sighs  Ibal  il  is  all  .ilone. 


WHITE. 


635 


The  autumn  leaf  is  sere  and  dead, 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden 

wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view. 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me 

too; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
1  weep  that  1  am  all  alone. 


ODE   TO   DISAPPOiyTMENT. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  1  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And   round   my  brow   resigned,  thy 
peaceful  cypress  twine. 

Though  P'ancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  treatl. 
Yet  Meditation  in  her  cell; 
Hear.-j  with  faint  eye  the  lingering 
knell. 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  clianee  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all 
was  not  laid  here. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 
Though     from     Hope's     summit 
buried, 
iStill,  rigid  nurse,  thou  art  forgiven. 
For    thou    severe    wert    sent    from 
heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world ; 
To  Hun  my  eye 
From  vanity. 
Ami   point   to   scenes  of   bliss   that 
never,  never  die. 


What  is  this  passing  scene! 

A  peevisli  April  day! 
A  little  sun — a  little  rain. 
And  then  night  sweeps   along    the 
plain. 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discussed) 
Yields  up  his  trust. 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with 
him  in  the  dust. 

Ob,  what  is  beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  and  dies; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break, 
I'o    lell    how    soft,   how   smooth    a 
cheek 
Beneath  its  sm-face  lies? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  beauty's  fall; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when 
mantled  in  the  pall. 

The  most  beloved  on  earth 
Not  long  sm-vives  to-day; 
8o  nuisic  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing 
s\\'eet ; 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Tims  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When   in    forsaken   tomb  the    form 
Ijeloveil  is  laid. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain. 

And  volatile  and  fleet. 
Why  should  1  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where   rust  corrupts,  and  moth  de- 
stioys. 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  ? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 
When   soon   this   bantl    will    freeze, 
this  throbbing  heart  be  still? 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me; 
Sad  monitn>ss!     I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  rim, 
I   only  itow   and  say.  My  Cod,  Thy 
will  be  done. 


f>36 


WHITNEY. 


THE  STASZA  ADDKI)  To  UALLEirS 
•'  HOSE." 

Ykt.  thousli  tliou  fade, 
From  t!iy  tload  leavos  let  fmcranco 
rise; 
Anil  toach  tho  inaid. 
That  ^aodness  Time's  nule  hand  de- 
fies. 
That  virtue  lives  wlien  lieanty  dies. 


Tn   .»//>•  AO/r/T.V A'. 

Mi.st\»iu  I  NE,  I  aiu  young, —  my  chin 

is  bare. 
And   I  iiave  wondered  much  when 

men  have  told 
How  yoiiili  was  free  from  sorrow  and 

from  care, 
That  Ihou  shoulir.it  dwell  with  me, 

and  leave  the  old. 
Sure  dost  ni)i  like  me!  —  Shrivelled 

hai4  of  hale. 
My  plii/,,  and   thanks   to   thee,  is 

sadly  long; 
1    am    not    either,    holdaine,    over 

strong; 
Vor  do  I  wisii  at  all  to  be  thy  mate. 
For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter 

hate. 
Nay,  shake   not  thus  thy  miserable 

pate;  jfaee; 

1  am  yet  youm:,  and  ilo  not  like  tliy 
And  ie..st  thou  shouid'st  resume  the 

wild-goosu  chase, 


I'll  tell  thee  sotuething  all  thy  luat 

to  assuage, 
Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy   in    my 

age. 


A   LITTLE  BEFOltE  DEATH. 

Yes,    'twill    be    over   soon.  —  This 
siekly  »lream 
Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  fever- 
ish biain; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  re- 
deem 
From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried 
pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  be- 
fore.— 
Yon  landscape  smile, —  yon  golden 
harvest  grow, 
Von  sprightly  lurk  on  mounting  wing 
will  soar, 
Whiu   Henry's  name  is  heani  no 
more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends 
caress. 
They  laugh  in  health,  and  future 
evils  brave; 
Them  shall  a  wife  ami  smiling  ehil- 
<lren  bless. 
While  1  am  mouldering  in  my  silent 
grave. 
(Jod  of  the  just, — Thou  pivi-st  the 

bitter  cup; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


ADELINE  D.  T.  Whitney. 


EQCIS'OCTIAI.. 

I'mk  sun  of  life  has  cro.sscxi  the  line; 

The   sunnner-shine  of   lengthc*ne<i 
light 
Faded  and  failed,  till  whep-  1  stan<I 

'Tis  eipial  day  and  i-<pial  night. 

One  after  one,  a,s  dwindlini;  hours. 

Youth's  t:lowing  hoite.s  have  drop- 
pe.l  away, 
And  soon  may  banly  ^cuvothe  Kle.im 

That  oolilly  scores  a  winter'^  <lay. 


I  am  not  yoimg;  I  am  not  old; 

The  lliish  of  morn,  tiie sunset  calm, 
I'aling  and  dee|»ening,  eaeli  to  each. 

Meet  midway  witii  a  soIimuu  charm. 

One  side  I  see  the  summer  (ields 
Not  yet  disrobed  <if  all  their  green; 

While  weslerlv,  aloMi,'  'he  hills 
Klaine  the  lirMt  tints  of  frosty  sheen. 

.Vh,  midille  point,   where  cloud  and 
stoiin 
Make  bat  lie-ground  of  this,  my  life' 


WHITNEY. 


637 


WTiere,  even-matclied,  the  nlglit  and 
(lay 
Wage  round  me  their  September 
strife! 

I  bow  me  to  the  throateninii  gale; 

I  know  when  that  is  overpasl, 
Among  the  poaccfui  harvest  days, 

An  Indian  summer  comes  at  last! 


BEIIIXD   THE  ^^ASK. 

It  was  an  old,  distorted  face, — 
An    uncouth    visage,    rough    and 
wild,— 
Yet,    from    behind,    with    laughing 
grace. 
Peeped  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  child. 

And  so,  contrasting  strange  to-day. 
My  heart  of  youth  doth  inly  ask 

If    half    earth's   wrinkled    grimness 
may 
Be  but  the  baby  in  the  mask. 

Behind  gray  hairs  and  furrowed  brow 

And  witliered   look  that  life  puts 

on. 

Each,  as  he  wears  it,  comes  to  know 

How    (he  child    hides,   and  is  not 

gone. 

For  while  the  inexorable  years 

To    saddcii'-d    features     fit    their 
mould, 
Beneatli  the  work  of  time  and  tears 
Waits  something  that  will  not  grow 
old! 

The  rifted  pine  upon  the  hill. 
Scarred    >•/   die  lightning  and  the 
wind. 
Through  bolt  and  bl.ghtdoth  nurture 
still 
Young  fibres  underneath  tin-  rind; 

And  many  a  storm-l)last.  (iercily  sent. 
And  wasted  iiojie,  and  sinful  stain, 

Roughen  the  strange  integument 
The  struggling  sold  must  wear  in 
pain ; 


Vet  when  she  comes  to  claim  her  own. 

Heaven's  angel,  happily,   shall  not 

ask 

For  that  last  look  the  world  hath 

known, 

But  for  the  face  behind  the  mask' 


THE   THREE  LIGHTS. 

My  window  that  looks  down  the  west. 
Where  the  cloud-thrones  and  islands 

rest. 
One  evening,  to  my  random  sight. 
Showed  forth  this  picture  of  deliglit 

The  shifting  glories  were  all  gone; 
Tlie  clear  blue  stillness  coming  on; 
And  the  soft  shade,  'twixt  day  and 

night 
Held  the  old  earth  in  tender  light. 

Up  in  the  ether  hung  the  horn 
Of  a  young  moon;  and,  newly  born 
From  out  the  shadows,  trembled  far 
Tlie  shining  of  a  single  star. 

Only  a  hand's  breadth  was  between: 

So  close  they  seemed,  so  sweet- 
serene. 

As  if  in  iieaven  some  child  and 
mother. 

With  peace  untold,  had  found  each 
other. 

Then  my  glance  fell  from  that  fair 

sky 
A  little  down,  yet  very  nigh. 
.Just  where  the  neighl)oring  tree-tops 

made 
A  lifted  line  of  billowy  sliade, — 

And   from  the  earth-dark   twinkled 

clear 
One  other  spark,  of  human  cheer: 
A    home-smile,    lelling   where   there 

stood 
A  farmer's  house  beneaiii  ilie  wood. 

Only  these  three  in  all  the  s])ace; 
I'^ir  telegraphs  of  various  place. 
Which  sceinu;,  this  glad  thought  was 

mine, — 
Be  it  but  little  candlc-shii.e. 


638 


WHITNEY. 


Or  golden  disk  of  moon  that  swings 
Nearest  of  all  the  heavenly  thin;,'.-, 
Or  world  in  awful  distanet-  small. 
One  Light  dolh  feed  and  link  iheni 
all! 


•  /  WILL  AlilDE  IS  TIIISE  HOUSE." 

Amoxu  so  many,  ran  lie  care  ? 
Can  speeial  love  he  everywhere  ? 
A  myriad  homes, —  a  myriad  ways, — 
And  (Jod's  eye  over  everj'  plaee. 

Ovpr;  hnt  in  f    The  world  is  fnll; 
A  gr-ind  omnipotenee  must  rule; 
Hill  is  there  life  that  doth  al>ide 
\\  itli  mine  own  living,  siile  by  side? 

So  many,  and  so  wide  ahroad: 
<  an  any  lieart  have  all  of  (Jod  ? 
From  the  great  spaces, vague  and  dim. 
May  one  small  household  gather  Him? 

I  asked  :  my  sonl  heihi)U..'ht  of  this:  — 
In   just  that  vrry  place  ()f  his 
Where  Iff  hath  i>ut  ami  keci)eth  you, 
(jod  hath  no  other  thing  to  do! 


IIEAKTH-CLOW. 

In  tli<>  (iri'shiue  at  the  twilight. 

The  )iieturrs  that   I  see 
Are  less  with  mimie  laiidsea|)e  hright 

Than  with  life  ami  mystery. 


Where  the  embers  Ihtsh  and  flicker 
With  their  palpilalim;  glow, 

I  see.  til  fuller  ami  (|uiek«'r, 
ll<arl-pui-es  innie  and  go. 

And  liereaud  there,  with  eager  flame, 

A  little  tongue  of  light 
L'luenches  earnestly  to  claim 

A  somewhat  out  of  sight. 

I  know,  with  instinct  stire  and  high. 

A  somewhat  nnist  be  there; 
KIse  should  the  li'-ry  impulse  die. 

In  ashes  of  ilespair. 

Through  the  red  tracery  I  discern 

A  jiarablc  sublime; 
A  solttnii  myth  of  souls  that  burn 

In  ordeals  of   tiihe. 


SVS'LICIIT  ASI)  ST.ll!LI(;ilT. 

(Joi)  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone; 
'fhey  have  no  davlight  of  their  own: 
Oidy  in  lives  of  happier  ones 
They  see  the  shine  f)f  distant  stins. 

Gotl  knows,     (.'oiileul  thee  with  tliv 

night. 
Thy    greater    heaven    hath    gnimler 

light. 
To-tlay  is  close;  the  hours  are  snudl; 
Thou  sit' St  afar,  and  hasl  them  all. 

Lose  the  less  joy  that  dolh  but  blind; 
Kea'li  forth  a  lar;;er  bliss  to  liml. 
To-«iay  i-  briif:  the  ineliihive  sphens 
I{aiu  laptures  of  a  thousand  years. 


LAiiy.i:. 

My  little  maiden  of  four  y^ars  old  — 

No  myth,  but  a  •.'•■milne  ddld  is  sin-. 
With  her  bron/e-brown  ey's  and  her  euils  of  gold^ 

fame,  ipiite  in  illsgust,  one  day,  to  n>e. 

Rul)!)!!)','  her  shoulder  with  rosy  palm. 

Ah  the  loathsome  t<imli  -i-enxd  yii  t<i  thrill  her, 
She  eri<d.  "Omoih-rl   I  found  ou  m\  arm 

A  horrible,  cniwling  eal«rj»illar! '" 

And  with  mlHrhievoiiH  sndle  .she  couM  seareely  .sraothor, 
Vef  .»  trlanre  in  it«  diiriii:,',  half  nwed.  half  sjiy. 

She  added.  "  While  lln-v  wrre  aboni  it.  mother 
I  wish  they'd  juHt  linish«d  the  biillerllyl" 


WEITTIER. 


639 


They  were  words  to  the  thought  of  the  soul  that  turns 

From  the  coarser  form  of  a  partial  growth, 
Reproaching  tlie  intiiiitc  patience  that  yearns 

With  an  unknown  glory  to  crown  them  both. 

Ah,  look  thou  largely,  with  lenient  eyes. 
On  whatso  beside  thee  may  creep  and  cling, 

For  tlie  possil)le  glory  that  imderlies 

The  passing  phase  of  the  meanest  thing! 

What  if  God's  great  angels,  whose  waiting  love 

Beholdetli  our  pitiful  life  below 
Fi'oni  the  lioiy  lieight  of  their  heaven  above, 

Could  n't  bear  with  the  worm  till  the  wings  should  grow  ? 


Elizabeth  H.  Whittier. 


CHARITY. 

The    pilgrim    and     stranger,    who,    For  gifts,  in  his  name,  of  food  und 
through  the  day,  _         rest. 


Holds   over  tlie  desert  his  trackless 

way, 
Wliere  the  terrible  sands  no  shade 

have  known, 
No  sound  of    life   save  his  camel's 

moan, 
Hears,  at  last,  through  the  mercy  of 

Allah  to  all, 
From  his  t-nf-duor,  at  evening,  the 

Bedouin's  call: 
"Whoever  thou  art,  whose  need  is 

great. 
In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compas- 

sionat(! 
And   Meiciful    One,    for    thee    I 

wait!" 


The    tents   of    Islam,    of   Go((    are 

blest. 
Thou,  who  hast  faith  in  the  Onrist 

above. 
Shall  the  Koran  teach  thee  iLe  Law 

of  Love  ? 
O  Christian! — open  thy  heart  and 

door,  — 
Cry,  east  and  west,  to  the  wandering 

poor,  — 
"  Wlioever  thou  art,  whose  need  is 

great, 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compas- 
sionate 
And    Merciful    One,    for    thee 

wait!" 


John  G.  Whittier. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

Blesrixos  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
^\'ith  tliy  turued-up  i)antal()ons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 


With  the  siuishine  on  thy  face. 

Through  thy  lorn  l)rini"s  jaunty  grace; 

From  my  heart  I  give  tlice  joy,  — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  l)oyI 

Prince  tliou  art, —  the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  niillion-<lollared  ride! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 


040 


wiinriER. 


Thou  has'  \w>rn  than  he  cau  buy 
In  the  ii'.K'h  dI  oar  and  cyr, — 
Outwanl  siiiishiiir,  iiiwani  joy: 
Blessings  on  ihee,  barofool  boy! 

Oh,  for  boyliood's  painless  play, 
Slt't'i>  thai  wakts  in  luui^hing  day, 
lii'aUli  lliat  mocks  thi"  doctor's  riile^, 
Know.fd^c  never  learned  in  schools, 
( )f  th«'  wild  bee's  moinin^c  chase, 
of  the  wil.Mlower's  time  and  i)lace. 
FliL'ht  nf  fowl  and  hal^itnde 
<  )f  ilie  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  tie'  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  liie  woo.iclnick  iliushis  eell. 
And  tlie  L;round-Miol(?  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
lliiw  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whilol  lilies  lilow. 
Where  tin-  freshest  berries  grow, 
Wiiere  tile  ground-nut  trails  its  vine. 
Where      the    wood-grain's     clusters 

shiiu"; 
Of  the  b'ack  was|)'»  eiuming  way, 
Mason  of  ins  walls  of  clay. 
And  llie  areiiileciuiai  plans 
Of  gray  ln)rnet  artisans  I  — 
i"or,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
N'ature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Kace  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
I'art  and  pared  of  her  joy, — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Oh,  for  boyho()d's  time  of  .June, 
f 'rowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  thing's  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  tliiiir  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  ricli  in  Mowers  and  trees, 
ilinnmiii'.'-birds  and  bi>iiev-bees; 
I'or  n»y  spmt  the  •<.|iiirrel  played, 
I 'lied  the  snouted  mole  \\\s  spade; 
I'or  iiiy  tasie  the  blackberry  erine 
I'wrpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
I.aiigbed  Ine  lirook  ftir  my  delight 
'riiKiii'^li  the  day   and  through    the 

night, 
Wlii^l"ring  at  the  ganlen  wall. 
Taik.-d  with  me   from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  lie-  sand-rimmed  plcker»d  j»ond, 
Mine  ilie  walnut  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,  on  Im  iidlng  ori'liard  trees, 

Apples  of   Ile^perides! 

btill  as  my  horizon  gruw 


Larger  grew  uiy  riches  too; 
All  the  worhl  1  saw  or  knew 
.Si  emcd  a  complex  Chinese  toy 
I'asliiuned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 

Oh,  for  festal  dainties  spread. 
Like  my  l)owl  of  milk  an  I  br.ad, 
IVwler  spoon  and  bowl  of  wooil. 
On  the  door-slonc,  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me.  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloutly-ribbed.  the  sunset  bent, 
rurple-cmtained,  fringed  with  gold 
Ldopel  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold 
While  for  nnisic  came  the  play 
Of  the  pie!  frogs'  orcheslra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  lly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch;  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy. 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Livt:  and  lau<^h,  as  boyhood  caul 
'riioiigh  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
>Slubble-si)eared      the      new  -  mowi 

sward. 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
V\\'A\  baptisms  of  the  dew; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  f'ue  lieat 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
L<»si'  the  freedom  of  tin'  sod. 
Like  a  c(jlt's  Uw  work  be  shml. 
Made  to  (reiil  the  mills  of  toil, 
C]!  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil: 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
N'ever  on  forbidden  L:roni\<l; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
(^nick  an  I  treacherous  s.mils  of  sin. 
Ah!  that  thou  conldst  know  thy  jo\, 
I'ire  It  passes,  barefoot  boy ! 


IN  SVllOOI.nAYS. 

Srii.i,  sits  the   school-house   by  lb" 
road, 

A  ragge(?  beggar  suiuiin',': 
Around  it  slill  the  Humaclm  irrow. 

And  blackberry-vines  are  ruindng. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  Is  seen. 

Deep  scairecl  by  raps  oUiebil; 
The  warpii;  '  lloor,  the  haltered  scali>, 

The  jack  '«uife's  carved  initial; 


WHITTIER. 


641 


The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting; 
Lit  up  its  western  winilow-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyesfuU  of  grieving, 

Of  one  \\  ho  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled : 

His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 
Where  pride  and  shame  were  min- 
gled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 
The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  treinijle  of  her  voice. 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes    lower 
fell,— 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you!" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl!  the  gras'^os  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing! 

He    lives    to    learn,   in    life's    hard 
school 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triimvph  and  his  loss. 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


MY  PSAL.V. 


I  MOTTHx  no  more  my  vanished  years: 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  ni  smiles  autl  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 


The  west-winds  blow,   and,  singiii:: 
low, 

I  hear  tlie  glad  streams  nm; 
The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 

Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

1  look  in  hope  or  fear; 
But,  grateful  lake  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land. 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare; 

The   manna    dropping    from    God's 
hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

1  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  s])ring  may  never  play 
Among  therijjciriiig  corn. 

Nor  freshness  of  the  llowers  of  Jlay 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn ; 

A'et  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Thiough  fringed  lids  to  heaven. 

And  (he  jiale  asttr  in  the  Inook 
Shall  see  its  image  given : 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  o* 
praise, 

The  south-w  ind  softly  sigh. 
And  sweet,  caln?  (ir.ys  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Bebuke  an  age  of  wrong: 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the 
sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But    smiting    hands    shall   learn   to 
h.-al.  — 

To  build  as  to  destroy; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  asCiod  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  w  ithbold. 
And  knoweth  more    of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told.' 


042 


]\  UITTIER. 


Enough  tliat  blessings  iiiwlosoi-ved 
Have  marked  my  oning  track;  — 

That     \vhtrfsoi'\'r     my     ft-ft     have 
s\v«'r\ed. 
His  chastening  tunntl  me  back;  — 

That  more  ami  mori'  a  rrovidcnoe 

( )f  love  Is  undcrstooil. 
Making  the  springs  of  time  ami  sense 

Sweet  with  eteiiial  good;  — 

That  death  seenis  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light. 
Wherein  no  blindi-d  child  can  stray 

Ueyond  the  Father's  sight;  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Throii','h  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  ovcq)ast, 
In  purple  disUince  fair;  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  iisalm. 

And  all  the  angb-s  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play; 

And  itil  the  windows  of  my  heart 
1  oixm  to  the  day. 


BARn.iiiA  Fiiir/nniR. 

Vv  from  the  meadows  rich  with  com, 
<  lear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The    cluster'd    spires    of    Frederick 

stand, 
( Jreen-walledbythehlllsof  Maryland ; 

Kounil  alH)ut  them  orchards  sweep, 
Api»le  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

i'air  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord, 
To  the    eyes   of    the    fandshetl   relml 
horde, 

'til  ihat  pleasant  morn  of  the  early 

fall, 
Wbiii   l.i-e  marchrd  over  the  moini- 

tain  wall. 

Over  ilie  mountains  winding  <lown. 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 


Forty  (lags  with  their  silver  stars. 
Forty  (lags  with  their  crimson  bars. 

Flapped  in   the  morning  wind:   the 

sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not 

one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  I*'rietchie  then. 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  amJ 
ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town. 
She  took  up  the  (lag  the  men  hauled 
down. 

In  her  attic  wimlow  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  lieart  was  loyal  yet. 

F])  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

I'mltr  bis  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
lie  glanced:    the   old    tlag    met   his 
siglit. 

"  Halt !" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood 

fast ; 
"Firel" — out  blazed  the  ritle-blast. 

It   shivered  the    window,  pane    and 

sash, 
It  rent   the  banner  with   seam  and 

gash. 

Quick,  a-^  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff. 
Dame    Barliara    snaleiied  the   silken 
scarf. 

She  leaned   far  out  on  the  window- 
sill. 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  nuist,  this  old   gniy 

head. 
But  Rjmre  your  coimtry's  flag,"  she 

said. 

A  sliadeof  sadm-ss.  a  blu.-<b  of  shame, 
t)ver  the  fa<-e  of  the  leader  came; 

'I'he  nolder  natiuc  within  him  slirr'd 
To  life   at    that  woman's   deed    ami 
word. 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yi>n  gray  beail 
I  Dies  like  a  doj, !    March  on ! "  he  said. 


WHITTIER. 


643 


All  (lay  long  through  FnMlerick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And,  through  tlie  hill-gaps,  sunset 
light 

Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good- 
night. 

Barbara  Frietohie's  work  is  o'er. 
And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no 
more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 
Fall,  for  her   sake,   on  Stonewall's 
bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchic's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  do\m 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

Maud  Mullkr,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Iiaked  the  meadow  sweet  Avith  hay. 

Beneath   her  torn    hat    glowed  the 

woalth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  meri7 

glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tiee. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off 

town. 
White    from    its    hill-slope    looking 

down. 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague 

unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her 

breast,  — 


A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  toowii, 
For  sometliing  better  than  she  had 
known. 

The  judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lanc: 
Smoothing  liis  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees  to  greet  the  maid ; 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring 

that  flowed 
Througii  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She    stooped  where  the  cool  spring 

bubbled  up. 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking 

down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered 

gown. 

"Thanks,"     said    the    judge,     "a 

sweeter  draught 
From     a   fairer    hand    was    never 

quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers 
and  trees, 

Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  hum- 
ming bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  won- 
dered whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring 
foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And   hei-  graceful   ankles   bare  and 
brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise. 
Looked   from  her  long  lashed  hazel 

eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away 

Maud    Muller    looked    and    sisrhed- 

"Ah  me! 
That  I  the  judge's  bride  might  be ! 

"He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so 

fine. 
And  praise  and  toas'  me  at  his  wina 


6U 


WUITTIKE. 


*  My  fatluT  should  wear  a  broadcloth 

coat  ; 
My  brother  slioidd  sail  a  painted  boat. 

'•  I'd  dn.'ivs  my  inollier  so  grand  and 

gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy 

each  day. 

•'And  I'd  teed  the  hungry,  and  clothe 

the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  uie  who  left  our 

door.' 

The  judge  lotjked  back  as  he  clind)ed 

thohill. 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"  A    fomi    more   fair,   a  face   more 

sweet. 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  \o\  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  grace- 
ful air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Woidd  she  were  mine,  and  I  fo-<1aY. 
Like  her,  a  hanester  of  hay: 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and 

wrongs. 
Nor    wean.'    lawjers    with    endless 

tongues, 

"  Hut  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
.\nd   health,   and  r|uiet,  and   loving 
wonls." 

!5ul  he  thou'^ht  of  hi.^  sisters  jiroud 

anil  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and 

gold. 

*.-.).  closing  his  heart,  the  judge  rode 
on. 
\iid  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

iJut   the  la\vyer8  smiled  that  after- 
noon. 
When   be  hummed  In  court  an  old 

|r)Ve-Hme; 

And  till'  young  girl  musi-d  iK-side  the 

well. 

TlU  the  rain  on  the  uinaked  clover 
feU. 


He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  (lower, 
Who   lived    for    fashion,   i\J5   he   fol 
power. 

Yet  oft,  in  bis  marble  hearth's  bright 

glow. 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go; 

And  sweet  ^laud  Muller's  lia/el  eyes 
J.ooked  out  in  tbeir  inn«)cent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  bis  glass  was 
reil, 

He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  in- 
stead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished 

rooms. 
To  dream  of  n)eadows  and  clover 

blo(»ms. 

And  the  jiroud  man  sighed,  with  a 

secret  pain: 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day. 
Where   I  be   barefoot    maiden   raked 
her  hay." 

She   wedded  a   man   ludearncd   and 

jioor. 
And    many    children    played    round 

her  door. 

Hut  care,  and  sorrow,  and  cbildbirib 

)iaiu, 
l.ifl  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft.  when  thesmnmer  sun  shone 

hot 
( >n  the  new-mown  bay  in  the  meatlow 

Int. 

Anil  she  beard  the  little  spring-brook 

fall 
Over  the  rojidside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  upple-trce  again 
."^he  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

.\nd.  gazlnu  down,  with  tindd  gmcc, 
She   felt    his    plejise<l  eyes  re.id   hel 
face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kiicbiii  walls 
Stretched  away  Into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  lumod, 
The  t.illow  candle  an  astral  burne<l, 


WRITTIER. 


645 


Ami  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney 

Dozing  and  gi-umbling  o'er  pipe  and 
mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life 

again. 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas,  for  maiden,  alas,  for  judge, 
For    rich    repiner    and     household 
drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both,  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  re- 
call. 

For  of  all    sad  words  of  tongue  or 

pen. 
The  saddest  are   these:    "It  might 

have  been! " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Koll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 


[Frcm.  The  Tent  on  the  Bearh.  —The  Grave 
by  the  Lake.'] 
UNIVETxSAL   SALVATION. 
O  THE  generations  old 
Over  whom  no  chnrch-bells  tolled, 
Christless,  lifting  up  l)lind  eyes 
To  the  silence  of  liic  skies! 
For  the  innumerable  dead 
Is  my  soul  disijuieted, 

nearest  thou,  O  of  little  faith. 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
AS'iiat  is  whispered  by  the  trees?  — 
'"Cast  on  Ciod  lliy  care  for  tiiese; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  l)e  dim; 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"  Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  tlie  self-forged  chain 
P.inding  ever  sin  to  jiain. 
•strong  tlifir  inisoii-liousc  of  will, 
Hut  without  He  waitelh  atill. 


'*  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  llow: 
Every  chain  that  sinrits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  lire. 

"Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen. 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound!' 


•  Abrahdin 


\_From  The  Tent  on  the  Beach. 
Davtnport.] 

NATURE'S  liRVEliENCE. 

Thp;  hai-p  at  Nature's  advent,  striuig 

Has  never  ceased  to  jilay: 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  aw  ay. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is 
given, 

Ly  all  things  near  and  far: 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  arc  kneeling  on  the  strand, 
As  kneels  the  human  knee. 

Their  whit*;  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 
The  priesthood  of  the  sea ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures 
forth. 

Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense 
up 

From  many  a  mountain  slirine: 
From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 

She  pours  her  sacred  win*'. 

The  mists  above  the  morning'  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  i>iiyer; 

The  altar-ciutains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  pur])le  air. 

The  winds  with  hynuis  ui  praise  arfl 
loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  ))ain.  — 
Tlir  ihundcr-orgaii  of  tlic  dnud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 


048 


WIIITTIER. 


With   tlrooping  heatl  and   bnmches 
t Tossed 

The  twihght  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 
Its  transept  eartii  aiiti  air. 

The  music  of  its  starry  march 
The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 
Willi  which  her  years  began, 

And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 
The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


THE   I'l{i:ssi:iJ   CHS'TIAS. 

TllK  lime  of  gifts  has  cnnH-  again. 
And,  on  my  norliifrn  wiiulow-pane, 
<  )utiincil  against  the  day's  brit-f  light, 
A  Christmas  token  bangs  insight. 
'I'lu-  wayside  travellers,  as  they  pass, 
Mark  the  gray  disk  of  clouded  ghiss; 
And  the  dull  blankness  seems,  per- 

chanct', 
I'olly  to  their  wise  ignorance. 

Tlii'y  cannot  from  their  outlook  see 
Tbe  |Mrfi'i-t  gnice-it  bath  for  me; 
For  there  the  Uower,  whose  fringes 

Ibrongli 
Tlie  frosty  breath  of  autuiun  blew, 
Turns  from  without  its  face  of  bloom 
'i'o  the  warm  tropic  of  my  room, 
As  fair  as  whin  iieside  its  brook 
'1  be  hue  of  i)ending  skies,  it  look. 

So.  fnun  tbe  troddi-n  ways  of  earlli. 
Seem    some    sweet    souls    who    vi-il 

I  heir  worth, 
Anil  olTer  to  the  careless  {.dance 
'I'be  ( loiidiMg  urJiy  of  circunislanee. 
Tbey  blossom  Inrst  where  heart  h-lin-s 

liurn. 
To  lo\  im;  eyes  alune  Ibey  turn 
Tb'-    lliiwds   of    inwani    grace,    thai 

llide 

Their  bcHiily  from  the  worlil  outside. 

I  till  deeper  nie:iniiit;s  rome  to  me, 
M\  balf-inimurlal  llo«er.  from  ibeel 


Man  judges  from  a  partial  view. 
None  cscr  yet  bis  brother  knew  ; 
The  Flernal  Fye  that  sees  the  wliole 
May  belter  read  the  darkened  soul, 
-Viid  liiiil.  to  outward  sense  deiiieii. 
The  (lower  ui>on  its  inmost  side! 


MY   r I. AY. MATE. 

Till-:  pines  were  dark  on  liamoth  hill 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low: 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear: 

The  sweetest  and  the  sadtlest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  (low- 
ers. 
My  idaymate  left  her  home, 
.\.nil    look    with    Iht    the    laughing 
spring. 
The  music,  and  the  i)lnuni. 

.She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin. 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine; 
What  more  could  ask    the  bashfuJ 
boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  (he  Idooni  of  .May: 
The  coiisianl  years  lold  o'er 

Their    seasons    with   as   swed    May 
morns. 
IJul  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  tbe  roum" 

of  lllKaeiilfiil  years: 
Still  oer  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

.\nd  rea]i  tbe  autumn  ears. 

.She  lives  where  all  (he  yoldeii  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sim 

Uefore  her  eome  and  go. 

There  liajily  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooiliM  lier  silken  gown.  — 

No  mon  I  lie  bomeHpun  i.ip  wherein 
1  sliook  I  be  walnuis  down. 


WILDE. 


647 


Tlip  wilJ.  giiipes  wait  us  by  tlie  brook, 
The  blown  nuts  on  the  liiJl, 

A.ud  still  the  3Iay-day  (lowers  make 
sweet 
The  woods  of  Follyralll. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Eamoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them. 
And  how  the  old  time  seems.  — 

■.\  ever  the  pines  of  lianioth  wood, 
Are  sounding  in  lier  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  1  hear  her  voice : 
Daes  she  remeinber  mine  1* 

And  w!iat  to  her  is  now  tlie  boy 
Wlu.  fed  her  father's  kiue  ? 


AVhat  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  c-ycs  than  ours,  — 

That  other  liands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time! 

Our  mossy  scat  is  green. 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and 
fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  songs  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Eamoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee ! 


Oscar  Wilde. 


EASTER-DA  Y. 

The  siher  trumpets  rang  across  the 
doivie : 
The  ptoi-le  knelt  upon  the  ground 

with  awe : 
And  borne  upon  the  necks  of  men 
I  saw, 
Like  ;;ome  great  god,  the  Holy  Lord 

of  Home. 
Priest-like,   Le   More    a    robe    more 
white  tlnn  foam. 
And,   king-like,    swathed   himself 

in  royal  red. 
Three  crowns   of  gold  rose  high 
upon  his  head : 
In  splendor  and   in  light  the  Pope 

passed  hou.v!. 
My    heart    stole    back    across   wide 
wastes  of  years 
To    One    wlio   wandered    by    a 

lonely  sea. 
And  sought  in  vain  for  any  place 
of  rest: 
'  Foxes  have  holet^,  and  every  bird 
its  nest, 
I,  only  I.  nuist  warder  wearily. 
And    bruise    ray    i  -et,    and    drink 
wine  salt  with  ,£ars." 


MADONNA  MIA. 

A    i,ir,Y-GiRL,   not    made    for    this 
world's  pain. 
With  brown,  soft  hair  close  braided 

by  her  ears. 
And   longing  eyes   half  veiled  by 
slumberous  tears 
Like  bluest  water  seen  through  mists 

of  rain: 
Pale  cheeks  thereon  no  love  hath 
left  its  stain, 
lied  underlip  drawn  in  for  fear  of 

love. 
And  white  throat,  whiter  than  the 
silvered  dove, 
Through  whose  wan   marble   creeps 

one  purple  vein. 
Vet,  though  my  lips  shall  praise  her 
uilliout  cease. 
Even   to   kiss    her  feet   I  am   not 
bold,  [of  awe. 

Being  o'ei-shadowed  by  the  wings 
Like    iJante,    wheito  he    stood    with 
Beatrice 
Beneath  the  flaming  lion's  breast, 

and  saw 
The  scvrntli  Crystal,  and  the  btail 
of  Gold. 


C48 


WILDE. 


SOXXET. 

ON  HEARINO  THE   DIfJS  IHJ!  SUNO  TS 
THE  SISTINE  CIIAI'EL. 

Nay,  Lonl,  nut  thus  I  white  lilk's  hi 
the  spriiii;. 
Sad  olive-i^iovi'S,  or  silvt'i-hreasted 

dove, 
Teach  me  more  dearly  of  'I'hy  life 
and  love 
'I'han  terrors  of  red  llaine  and  tliim- 

diTiiii,'. 
The  eini>ur|)led  vines  dear  lueuiories 
of  Thee  brinn: 
A  bird  at  eveiiini,'tlyiii!i  to  its  nest. 
Tells  me  of  One  who  had  no  plaee 
of  rest : 
I   think  it   is  of   Thee  the   sparrows 

sinj,'. 
t'onie  ratlier  on  some  antunin  after- 
noon. 
When  red  and  hrown  are  burnished 

on  tiic  leaves. 
And  the  fields  »'cno  to  the  gleaner's 
.sonu. 
Come  when  the  splendid  fulness  of 
the  moon 
Looks   ilown    upon    the    rows    of 

;;()ld<  n  >-li<aVes, 
And   n-ap  Thy  harvest  :    we   have 
waited  Inn;;. 


IMI-ltHSSIOS    />(■   MA'l'IX. 

TiiK  Thames  tiorliuin-  of    blue  and 

«old 

Chan^^ed  lo  a  harmony  in  Kn'V- 

A  bar^e  with  o(hre-e(»|i)red  iiay 

lirnpt  from  tlie  wharf:  and  ehill  and 

cold 

The  yellow  foij  came  creepin;;  down 
'I'he  britlKes,  till  the  houses'  walls 
Seemed  ehun^jed  to  Miadows,  and 
St.  I'aid'-i 

Loomed  like  u  bubbh;  o'er  the  town. 

Then  suddenly  arose  the  ehinf^ 

Of   waking   life;   the  streets  wen- 
si  irnd 
With  eoiniiry  wagons:  .-kml  ii  bird 

Flew  to  the  ;;listening  roofs  and  sang. 


Uut  one  jtale  woman  all  alone. 
The  daylii;lil  kissing  her  wan  liair 
Loiteretl    bciiealh    the    nas-lanips" 
tiare. 

With  lips  of  ttiime  and  heart  of  stone. 


Tin;  >ky  is  laeed  witli  litful  red. 
1  he   circling  mists    antl    shadows 

llee. 
Tin-  tiawn  is  rising  from  the  sea, 
Like  a  white  huly  fnjin  her  bed. 

And  ja-^'ged  brazen  arrows  fall 
.\  ill  wan  ihe  feathers  of  the  night. 
And  a  long  wave  of  yellow  light 
IJreaks  silenily  on  lower  and  hall. 

Ami    spreading    with'    across    the 

wold 
Wakes  into  (light  some  llultering 

bird. 
Anil    all    the    chestnut    tops    are 

stirreil 
And  all  (he  branches  streaked  with 

gold. 


SlI.llorKTTES. 

Till-:  sea  is  tlccked  with  bars  of  gray 
Tiie  dull  dead  wind  is  out  of  tune, 
And  liU<'  a  \uibcrcd  leaf  the  moon 

Is  blown  across  the  slonny  bay. 

Kiched  clear  u])on  Ihe  ]>allid  sand 
Tlie  black  boat  lies:  a  sailor  itoy 
<  ianil)crs  ubnard  in  caieless  joy 

With    laughing    face    und    gleaming 
hand. 

.And  overhead  llu'  nirlews  cry. 
Where  through  Ihe  dusky  upland 

grass 
The  young  brown-lhroated  rcapi-rs 
l>ass. 
Like  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 


UKQIIKSCAT. 

Tni  \i>  liu'bily,  she  is  near 

I  nder  tiic  snow, 
.Sj.cak  gi-nlly,  she  can  hear 

'i'he  daisies  grow. 


)E. 


0^9 


All  her  brii^ht  golden  hair 
TariiisliC'l  with  rust, 

She  tliat  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow, 

(She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a  woman,  so 

Sweetly  she  grew. 


C'offin-board,  heavy  stone, 

Lie  on  her  breast, 
1  vex  my  heart  alone 

She  is  at  rest. 

Peace,  peace,  she  cannot  hear 

Lyre  or  sonnet, 
All  my  life's  buried  here, 

Heap  earth  upon  it. 


Richard  Henry  Wilde. 


MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SlMMEli  HOSE. 

My  life  is  like  the  sunnner  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close 

Is  scattered  on  tlie  ground  —  to  die. 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed. 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see, — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  lik(^  the  autumn  leaf. 
That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale 
ray! 
Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief; 

Restless,  and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade. 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree,  — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  forme! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat. 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the 

sea,  — 
But  none,  alas!  shall  mourn  for  me! 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

\\'inged  mimic  of  the  woods!  thou 
motley  fool! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  de- 
scribe ? 

Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pmsue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  ami 
gibe: 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy 
tribe, 

Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's 
school ; 

To  thee,  the  palm  of  scoffing,  we  as- 
cribe. 

Arch-mocker  and  mad  abbot  of  mis- 
rule ! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day  —  but  all 
night  long 

Thou  pour' St  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive, 
solemn,  strain, 

^\.s  if  thou  didst,  in  this  thy  moon- 
light song. 

Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  com- 
plain, — 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  sin,  and 
wrong. 

And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat 
again. 


tlou 


WILLIAMS  — niJ. LIS. 


Helen  Maria  Williams. 


WHILST  TllEE  I   SEEK. 

Whilst  Thee  1  seek,  protectintc 
Power ! 

lie  my  vain  wishes  stilled; 
And  may  this  eonseorated  hour 

With  better  hopes  be  tilled. 

Thy  love  llie  power  of  tlioufjiht  be- 
stowc'd,  — 

To  Thee  my  thoui;hts  would  soar: 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  llowed; 

That  mercy  1  aiicjre. 

In  each  event  of  life,  iiow  clear 

Thy  ridiui,'  hand  I  seel 
E;ich  biessinj;  to  my  soul  most  dear, 

iiecause  conferreil  by  'I'hee. 

In  <!very  joy  thai  crowns  my  days, 

In  every  pain  I  bear. 
My  heart  shall  lind  delight  in  praise, 

(.)r  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When    i;ladncss   wings    my   favored 
hour. 
Thy  juve  my  thoughts  shall  (ill; 
Heslgned,    when    storms    of    sorrow- 
lower. 
My  soul  shall  meet  Thy  will. 

My  lifted  rye,  witliout  a  tear. 
The  gathering  storm  shall  .see; 


Mv    steadfast  lieart    shall    know  no 
fear; 
That  heart  will  rest  on  Thee. 


SONNET  To  Jfo/'E. 

Oil.  ever  skilled  to  wear  the  form  wi' 

love. 
'l"o  bid  the  shajtes  of  fear  and  grief 

depart, — 
Come,  gentle   Uo])el    with    one    gay 

smile  remove 
The    lasting    sadness  of   an   aching 

heart, 
i  by    voice,  benign  encbantressl    let 

me  bear; 
Say  that   for  me  some  jdeasures  yet 

shall  bloom; 
riiat  l-'ancy's  ratliance,   Friendship's 

l>reeious  tear. 
Shall  soften   or  shall   <'hase   misfop- 

tUIies  gloom. 
IhU  come  not  glowing  in  the  da/zlini; 

ray 
Which      once    with     dear    illusions 

charmed  my  eye; 
Oh,  strew  no  more,  sweet  llatterer, 

on  my  way 
The    llowers    I    fondly   thought    loo 

briglil  to  die. 
Visions  less  fair  will  .soothe  my  pen- 
sive Itreast, 
That  asks    not  happiness,  but  longs 

for  rest. 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


TO  A   CITY   rid  EON. 

•Stoop  to  my  win<low,  thou  beautiful 

dove! 
riiy  daily  visits  have  touched  my  love. 
1  wati'b  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That    stirs    Mrt    low    in    thy    mellow 
throat, 

^\nd  my  joy  is  high 
To  culeh  the  glance  of  Ihy  gentle  eye. 


Why    ilosi    thou   sit    on    tlie    healed 
(•aves. 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  fresh- 
ened leaves  ? 

Why    dost    tiiou    baimt    the    sulir\ 
street. 

When  the  paths  of  the  fon-st  an'  cooi 
and  sweet  ',' 
How  e|insl  thou  bear 

This  noi.ie  of  people  —  this  sultry  air  '. 


WILLIS. 


651 


Thou  alone  of  the  feathered  race 
Dost  look  imscared  on  the   human 

face; 
Thou  alone,  v,ith  a  wing  to  flee, 
Dost  love  with  man  in  his   haunts 

to  be; 
And  the  "gentle  dove" 
Has   become  a  name  for  trust  and 

love. 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird! 

Thou'rt  naiiu'd  with  childhood's  ear- 
liest word ! 

Thou'rt  Hnked  with  all  that  is  fresh 
and  wild 

In  the  piisoned  thoughts  of  the  city 
child; 
And  thy  glossy  wings 

Are  its   brightest  image  of  moving 
things. 

It  is  no  light  chance.     Thou  art  set 

apart, 
AVist'ly  by  Him  who  has  tamed  thy 

heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and 

fair 
That  else  were  sealed  in  this  crowded 

air; 
I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come,    then,    ever,    when    daylight 

leaves 
The    page   I   read,    to    my   humble 

eaves. 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow 

spout, 
And   murmur  thy  low  sweet  music 

out ! 
I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of   heaven,  sweet  bird,  in 

thee ! 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

[    LOVE   to   look   on   a  scene  like 

this. 
Of  wild  and  careless  play. 
\nd  persuade  myself  that  I  am  nut 

old. 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 


For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's 
heart. 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly. 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore 
years ; 
And  they  say  that  1  am  old, 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper, 
Death, 
And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true ;  it  is  very  true ; 

I'm  old,  and  "1  "bide  my  riiuc:'' 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like 
this, 
And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on :  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring: 
I   can   feel    the  thrill  of    tiie  daring 
jump. 

And    the    rush   of    the   breathless 
swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay. 

And  I  whoop  the  smothereil  call. 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  (loor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time 
shall  come. 
And  I  sliall  be  glad  to  go; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart 
will  fail 
In  treading  its  gloomy  way; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreari- 
ness 
To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


ON  THE  PICTURE   OF  A  "  CHILD 
TIRED  OF  PLA  K." 

Tiiuci)  of  play!  tired  of  play! 
What   hast  thou  done  this  livelong 

day  ? 
The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee; 
The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and 

tree ; 
Tlir  doves  have  llown  to  the  shell' r 

ing  eaves. 
And    tiie   nests   are   dark    with    tin. 

drooping  leaves; 


652 


WILLIS. 


'r\vilii,'ht  ?iatli('rs,  ami  day  is  done  — 
Ilmv  iia-st  tliousiH'iU  it — irst less  one? 

Playing?  But  what  hast  thou  done 
beside. 

To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide? 

What  promise  of  morn  is  left  un- 
broken ? 

What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate 
spoken  ? 

Whom  hast  thou  pitie<l.  and  wiioni 
forgiven  ? 

How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 

What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and 
hill. 

Jiy  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing 
rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer 

day. 
That  will  tind  thee  tired  —  but  not  of 

I-lay  ? 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest 

now, 
With    drooping    limbs    and    acliini,' 

brow, 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster 

creep. 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  ipiiet  sleep. 
Wi'll  were    it   then    if    thine   aeliing 

brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as 

now ! 

Well  for  Ihee  if  thy  lip  eould  tell 

A  tale  like  this  of  a  liay  spent 
well ; 

If  thine  open  band  hath  relieved  dis- 
tress, 

If  thy  pity  hath  s|irnng  to  wretchi-d- 
ness; 

If  thou  iiast  forgiven  the  sore  ofTenee, 

And  hiinibled  thy  heart  with  iM-ni- 
tenec; 

If  .Nature's  voir&s  have  spokiu  to 
thee 

With  her  holy  jneanings  elo<|nently: 

If  every  erealiire  liath  won  thy  love. 
From  tin-  eiicping  worm  to  the  broo<l- 

liiU  dove; 
If  ne\<Tasad,  l<jw-spoken  wonl 
Ilutli  plead  with   tliy  luuuun   heart 

unheard, — 


Then,  when  thf  night  steals  on,  as 

now. 
It  will   brini;  relief   to  thine  aching 

brow. 
And,    with    joy    and    peace   at   the 

ihnugbt  t)f  rest. 
Thou    will     sink    to    sleep    on    thy 

mother's  breast. 


THE  liUIUAL  OF  THE   CHAM  PI  OS 
OF  Ills   (7..I.S.V. 

Yh'vii    gathered    to   your   place   of 
prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread: 
Yoin-  ranks  are  iull,  your  mates  all 
there  — 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  tltd. 
lie  was  the  i)roudest  in  his  strength, 

The  miinliest  nf  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  be  at  that" fearful  length. 

And  y»'  aroiuid  his  pall  ? 

Ve  n'ekon  it  in  days,  since  he 
Strode  u|)  that  foot-worn  aisle, 

Willi  his  dark  eye  llashing  gloriously. 
Anil  bis  lip  wreathed  with  a  sndle. 

Ob.  bad  it  been  but  told  you  then. 
To  mark  whose  lamj"  was  dim  — 

Krom  nut   yon   rank    of    fresb-lippiHl 

IIICII, 

Would  ye  have  singleil  him  ? 

Whose  was  till'  sinewy  arm  that  llunii 

Deliancc  to  the  rini;  ? 
Wlmsc  latii,'h(if  victory  loudest  rung— 

^et  Hut  for  Liloryini;  ? 
Whose  heart,   in  generous  died  mid 
tboiighl. 

No  rivalry  mii,'hl  brook. 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not'? 

TIhic  lies  he  —  go  and  look! 

<  >n  now  —  bis  re((uiem  is  done. 

Till'  last  di-e|>  iiiajei-  is  said  — 
On  l<i  bis  burial,  comrulis  —  on. 

With  a  friend  and  brntber  dead! 
.Slow  —  for  it  pii'sses  heavily  — 

It  is  a  ni.in  ye  bear! 
.Slow,  for  our  ihouiibis  dwell  wearily 

Uu  the  Kiillaiit  sleeper  there. 


WILLIS. 


653 


Tread  lightly,  comrades!  —  we  have 
laid 

His  (lark  looks  on  his  brow  — 
Like    life  —  save   deeper   light    and 
shade : 

We'll  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly  —  for  'tis  beautiful. 

That  blue-veined  eyelid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye,  ileath  left  so  dull  — 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Rest  now !  his  journeying  is  done  — 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod  — 
Death's  blow  has  felled  your  cham- 
pion — 

He  waiteth  here  his  God. 
Ay —  turn  and  weep  — 'tis  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here  — 
For  the  grave  of  one,  the  best  of  us. 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 


TO  GIULIA   6  UTS  I. 

AFTER  HEARING  HER    IN   "  ^VNNA   BO- 
LENA." 

When  the  rose  is  brightest, 

Its  bloom  will  soonest  die; 
When  bums  the  meteor  brightest, 

'Twill  vanish  from  the  sky. 
If  Death  but  wait  until  delight 

O'errun  the  heart,  like  wine. 
And  break  the  cup  when  brimming 

quite, 
J  die  —  for  thou  hast  poured  to-night 

The  last  drop  into  mine. 


UNSEEN  SPiniTS. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide  — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her 
feet. 

And  Honor  channed  the  air; 
And  ;dl  astir  l()c)k<'d  kind  on  her, 

Ami  I'alU'd  her  good  as  fair  — 
For  all  (iod  over  gave  to  her 

bhe  kept  with  chary  care. 


She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true  — 

For  her  heart  was   cold  to  all    but 
gold. 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 

But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more 
fair  — 
A  slight  girl,  lily-pale; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 
To  make  the  spirit  quail  — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked 
forlorn. 
And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved 
in  air. 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way!  — 
But   the  sin   forgiven   by  Christ  in 
heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alwayl 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

On  the  cross-beam  under   the  Old 

South  bell 
The    nest    of    a  pigeon    is    builded 

well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is 

there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air: 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet; 
And  I  often  \\atch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  w  ings. 
Till    across   the   dial    his    shade   has 

passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding 

note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mot- 
tled throat; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling 

breast. 
And   the   gentle  curve  of   its   lowly 

crest; 
And  1  often  stoj)  with  the  fear  1  feel  — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  lapid  wheeL 


654 


WILLIS. 


'\\Tiatever   i.s     rung    on     that    noisy 

hell  — 
Chime  of  the  hoiu*  or  funeral  knell  — 
The  dove  in  the  l)elfiy  must  hear  it 

well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the 

miiinight  moon  — 
AVhen  the  sexton  cheerily  rings    for 

noon  — 
^\^len  the  eloek  strikes  clear  at  morn- 
ing light, 
When  the  eliild  is  waked  with  "  nine 

at  night" — 
When   the  ehinu-s  play  so£t  in  tin- 

Sahhath  air. 
Filling  thespirit  with  tones  of  pmyer: 
Whatever  tale  in  the  1x11  is  heard, 
lit'  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstiri'eil. 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  roumled  nest. 
Iletakesthe  tinii'losiiiooih  hisbrfast. 
Tiicn  drops  again  w  illi  lilmed  eyes. 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird!  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee! 
With  winus  to  lly  to  wooii  and  glen, 
'I'liy  lot,  like  iinne,  is  i-ast  with  men; 
.\i\t\  daily,  with  unwilling  feel, 
1  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street; 
I'.ut,  unlike  thee,  when  day  is  o'er. 
Thou   canst   dismiss   I  Ik*   world  and 

soar. 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst   smooth    the    fcathei"s   on    thy 

breast, 
And  drop,  forgetfid,  to  thy  nest. 


F/iOM  ••  AISSM.O.M." 

'  Ala.s!    my   ni»ble  boy  I    that    thou 
shoiiulst  die! 
Thou,  who  welt   mad<'  so   In-auti- 
fully  lair! 
I'hat  Death  should  settle  in  thy  glo- 
rious eye, 
Ajid  leave  fiis  stillness  lu  this  clus- 
tering hair! 


How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent 
tomb? 
My  proud  hoy,  Absalom! 

"  Colli  is  thy  brow,  my  son!  and  I  am 
chill. 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press 
thee! 
How  wiis  I  wont  to  fell  mv  pulses 
thrill, 
Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to 
eaiess  thee. 
And  hear  thy  sweet  *  in y  father  .'  ' 
from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips.  Absalom! 

"  liiU  death  is  on  tlu>e.     1  shall  hear 
the  gush 
<  ►f   nnisic.  .ind   the  voices  of  the 
young; 
And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling 
blush. 
And   the  dark   tresses  to  the  soft 
winds  lluuu';  — 
Hut  thou  no  more,  with    thy  sweet 
voice,  slialt  come 
To  meet  me,  Ab>ali>Uk! 

"  An<l  oh!  when  I  am  stricken,  and 
my  heart . 
Like  a  bruised  n-ed,  is  waiting  to  be 
iirok'u, 
I  low  will  ii>  lovi-  for  thoe,  as  1  depart, 
Vcarn  for  i  liinc  ear  to  drink  its  last 
ticep  token! 
It  were  sit  sweet,  amid  death's  gath- 
ering gloom. 
To  see  thee,  Alwalom! 

"And  now,   farewell!    'Tis  hard  to 
give  thee  up. 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slum- 
ber on  tlu'c;  — 
And    thy   dark    sin!  — Oh!    I   coidil 
drink  the  cup, 
If  from  Ibis  woe  its  bitterness  had 
won  line. 
May  Ciod  have  called  thee,  like  a  wau- 
dercr,  home. 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom!" 


WILL  SON.  658 


FORCEYTHE   WiLLSON. 

rfJE  OLD  SERGEANT. 

"  Come  a  little  nearer,  doctor,  —  thank  yon,  —  lot  nie  take  the  cup; 
Draw  your  chair  up,  — draw  it  closer,  —  just  another  little  sup! 
May  be  you  may  think  I'm  better;  but  I'm  pretty  well  used  up,  — 
Doctor,  you've  done  all  yon  could  do,  but  I'm  just  a  going  up! 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  yon  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much  use  to  try  "  — 
"  Nevei-  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smothered  down  a  sigh; 
*'  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say  die!  " 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  doctor,  when  you  come  to  die. 

''  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?  "     "  You  were  very  faint,  they  say; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have  I  been  away  ?  " 
"  Not  that  anybody  knows  of!  "     "  Doctor,  —  Doctor,  please  to  stay! 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't  have  long  to  stay  I 

''  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I'm  ready  now  to  go; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ?  —  but  it  couldn't  ha'  been  so,  — 
For  as  sure  as  I'm  a  sergeant,  and  was  woiuided  at  Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field  of  hhiloh! 

"  This  is  all  that  I  remember:    The  last  time  the  ligliter  came. 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noisrs  iinu'h  the  same, 
lie  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  sometliiiiL,'  ciiljcd  my  name: 
'  Orderly  Sergeant  —  liobert  Burton ! '  —  just  thai  way  il  called  my  name, 

"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and  so  slow. 
Knew  it  couldn't  be  the  lighter,  —  he  could  not  have  spoken  so,  — 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir!'  but  I  couldn't  make  it  go; 
For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle,  and  1  couldn't  make  it  go! 

"  Then  I  thought:  It's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humluig  and  a  bore: 
Just  another  foolish  grapevine.  —  and  it  won't  come  any  more; 
But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  sauK;  way  as  before : 
'  Orderly  Sergeant  —  Kobert  Burton!'  —  even  plainer  than  before: 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of  light, 
And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that  Sunday  night, 
Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  oi)posite. 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was  opposite! 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its  power. 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  soimding,  as  from  some  celestial  tower; 
And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said:  '  It  is  the  eleventh  hour! 
Orderly  Sergeant —  Robert  Burton  —  it  is  th<>  eleventh  hour!' 

"  Doctor  Austin!  what  day  is  this  ?  "   "  It  is  Wednesday  night,  you  know.' 
"  Yes.  —  to^morroTN  will  be  \ew  Yeai''s,  and  a  right  good  time  below! 
What  time  is  it.  Doctor  Austin  ■.'"    •'  Nearly  twelve."  "Then  don't  yon  go 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happeuwd  —  all  this —  not  an  hour  ago  ? 


606  \\'1LL6UN. 

'  Thero  was  wh<Te  tho  Lcnnhojits  oponcd  on  tlio  dark  n'lH'llious  host; 
Anil  wlii'ic  Wolister  si'niicirclt'il  liis  last  i^uns  npon  tin-  coast; 
There  were  still  the  two  lo'^-houses,  jiisi  the  same,  or  clsi'  their  ^I'^st,  — 
And  the  same  old  transport  eame  and  took  me  over  —  or  its  ghosti 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserteil  far  and  wide; 
Thi're  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss.  — there  MeClernund  met  the  tide; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where  llnrlhnrl's  heropsdiod.— 
Lower  down,  where  Wallaee  eharued  them,  and  kept  eharfiinp  till  he  died. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  WiJlaee  showed  them  he  was  of  the  canny  kin, 
There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where  Honsseati  waded  in; 
There  MeCook  sent  'em  to  hn-akfitst,  and  we  all  heijan  to  win,  — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as  we  hegan  to  win. 

"  Now  a  shroud  of  snow  anil  silence  ovi'r  "very thing  was  sjiread; 
And  hut  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on  my  head, 
1  should  not  have  even  doubt«'d,  to  this  moment,  1  was  dead, — 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon  the  dead! 

"Death  and  silencel  —  Death  and  silencel  all  arouml  nicas  I  sjied! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to  the  dead. 
To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty  head. 

Till  the  Stars  and  StriiH's  of  heaven  all  seemed  waving  from  its  head! 

"  Hound  and  mighty-based  it  towered,  —  up  into  the  infinite,  — 
And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  i-ould  have  built  a  shaft  so  bright; 
For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine;  and  a  winding-stair  of  light 
Wound  around  it  and  i-round  it  till  it  wnund  clear  out  of  sight! 

"  And.  bcliold,  as  I  aiiju'oaclicd  it.  with  a  rajit  ami  da/.zled  st;ire, — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  nlii  cnnnailes  jn>.t  a>.ceniling  the  u'reat  stair, 
SiKldcidv  the  solemn  challenge  broke,  of — •  Halt,  and  who  goes  fhoro!' 
'  I'm  a  friend,'  I  said.  '  if  you  are.'     '  Then  advance,  sir,  to  the  stair! 

"I  advanced!     That  sentry,  doctor,  wasKlijah  nallantyJie!  — 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the  lin<'!  — 
'Welcome,  my  olil  sergeant,  welcome!     Welcomi-  by  that  countersign!' 
And  he  poiiit«'d  to  tin-  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak  of  ndne! 

"  As  he  graspe<l  tny  haml.  I  shnd<lered,  thinking  only  of  the  grave; 
Hut  hi'  smiled  and  point"il  upward  with  a  bright  and  bloiMlless  glaive; 
'  That's  till  \\a>.  sir.  to  heai|i|uailers.'    What  headi|uarters  ?  '  Of  I  he  brave." 
*  But  the  great  tower'.''     ''I'hat.'  he  answered,  "is  the  way,  sir,  of  the 
Itnive!" 

"Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me,  at  his  uniform  of  light; 
At  my  own  -.o  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and  luight: 
*  Ah!'  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten  the  new  uniform  to-niglit,  — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  Im' here  at  just  twelve  o'clock  to-night!* 

"  And  the  ne.xl  \h\nu,  I  rememlwr.  you  were  sitting  there,  and  I  — 
I)ocior,  —did  you  hear  a  for)|step'.*     Hark!—  (Jod  bless  yon  all!    (Jood-by! 
Doctor,  please  to  give  niv  mnskei  and  my  knaji-ack.  when  1  die. 
To  my  son  —  mv  son  iliat's  coming.  -   hw  won't  eet  here  till  I  die  I 


WILSON. 


657 


"  Tell  him  Lis  old  father  blesset*  him  as  he  never  did  before,  — 
And  U)  carry  that  old  musket  "  —  Hark!  a  knock  is  at  the  door!  — 
"  Till  the  Union  ■■  — See!  it  opens  I— "  Father!  Father!  speak  once  more ! " 
"  Bless  you! "  gasped  the  old,  gray  sergeant,  and  he  lay  and  said  no  more! 


John  Wilson  cChristopher  North.) 


THE  EVEN IX G   CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting 

sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided 

snow: 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving 

on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of   the  lake 

below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated 

slow! 
Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was 

rest; 
While    every    breath    of    eve    that 

chanced  to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous 

west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed 

soul, 
7'o  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of 

bliss  is  given; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to 

roll 
Kight  onwards  to  the  golden  gates  of 

heaven, 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful 

lies. 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  desti- 
nies. 


[From  the  Isle  of  Palms.] 
THE  SHIP  ir HECK. 

But  list !  a  low  and  moaning  sound 
At  distance  heard,  like  a  >piril's  song, 
Ami  now  it  reigns  above,  anxiMd, 
.\s  if  it  called  the  ship  along. 
The   moon   is  siuik;   and  a  clouded 

gray 
Declares  tliat  her  course  is  run, 


And  like  a  god  who  brings  the  day, 

Up  mounts  the  glorious  sun. 

Soon  as  his  light  has  warmed  the 

seas. 
From  the  parting  cloud  fresh  blows 

the  breeze; 
And    that  is  the  spirit  whose  well- 
known  song 
Makes  the  vessel  to  sail  in  joy  along. 
No  fears  hath  she;  her  giant  form 
O'er  wrathful  surge,  through  black- 
ening storm, 
Majestically  calm  would  go 
'Mid    the   deep   darkness  white   as 

snow.' 
But    gently   now    the    small    waves 

glide 
Like  playful  lambs  o'er  a  movmtain's 

siile. 
So  stately  her  bearing,  so  proud  her 

array. 
The  main  she  will  traverse  for  ever 

and  aye. 
Many  ports  will  exult  at  the  gleam 

of  her  mast;  — 
Hush!  hush!  thou  vain  dreamer!  this 

hour  is  her  last. 
Five  hundred  souls  in  one  instant  of 

dread 
Are  hurried  o'er  the  deck; 
Anil  fast  the  iniscral)le  ship 
Becomes  a  lifeless  wreck. 
Her  keel   hath  struck  on  a  hidden 

rock. 
Her  planks  are  torn  asunder. 
And    down   come  her  masts  with  a 

reeling  shock. 
And  a  liideoiis  cnish  like  thunder. 
Her  sails  are  draggled  in  the  brine. 

That  gladdened  late  the  skies, 
.^nd  her  iiennaiU  tliat  kissed  the  fail 

nioonsliine. 
Down  many  a  fathom  lies. 


658 


WINTER. 


Hit  beauteous  sides,  whose  rainbow 
iiues 
(ileaniftl  softly  from  below, 
Ami  fluii^  a  wami  ami  sunny  flush 
Orr    the  wreaths    of    niunnuriiig 
snow. 
To  the  roral-rook  are  hurrying  down. 
To  sleep  amid  colors  as  bright  as  their 

own. 
C)h!  in;my  a  dream  was  in  the  ship 

Am  liDur  befort'  In  r  ilt-ath; 
Ami  sights  of   home  with  sighs  dis- 
turl)ed 
The  sleeper's  long-drawn  breath. 
Insii-ail  of  tlie  nuuMuur  of  the  sea, 
The  sailor  lie;ird  tin-  humming-tree 

Alive  lliiKjugh  all  its  leaves. 
The  hum  of  liie  spreading  sycamore 
Thai  grows  before  his  eotlage  door. 
And    the    swallow's    song   in   the 
eaves. 
His  arms  enelosed  a  blooming  boy, 
Who   listened    with   teal's  of  si)rrow 
and  joy 
To    the    dangers    his    fatlier    had 
passed ; 
And   his  wife  —  by  turns  she  wej)! 
and  smiled, 


As  she  looked  on  the  father  of  hei 
child. 
Heturncd  to  her  lieart  at  last. 
lie   wakes    at    the    vessel's    sudden 

roll 
And   the   nish  of  waters  is  in    his 

sold. 
Astounded,  the  reeling  deck  he  paces, 
'Mid    hurrying    forms    and    ghastly 
faces; 
The  whole  ship's  crew  are  there! 
Wailing  around  and  overhead. 
Brave  si)irits  sLupehcil  or  dead, 
And  madness  and  despair. 

Now  is  the  ocean's  bosom  bare, 
Unbroken  as  the  floating  air; 
The  ship  hatli  melted  (piite  away. 
Like  a  sUiiggliiig  dream  at  lireak  ot 

day.  ^^ 
No  image  meets  my  wandering  eye, 
But  the  new-risen  sim  and  the  sunny 

sky. 
Though   the  night-shades  are  gone, 

yet  a  vapor  dull 
Bedims  the  waves  so  beautiful: 
While  a  low  ami  melancholy  moan 
Mourns  for  the  glory  that  halh  llowii 


William  Winter. 


THE    U'lllTK   FLAG. 

Bi;iN<i  jKtjipies  for  a  weary  ndnd 
That  saddens  iu  a  senseless  din. 

And  let  my  si)iril  leavi'  btdiind 
,\  world  of  riot  and  of  sin, — 

III  action's  ior|K>rdeaf  and  blind. 

Bring  po|ipies  —  that  I  may  forget! 

ISring  ]ioppies — that    1    iiiav  not 
learn : 
But  bill  the  amlacions  sun  to  set, 

.\iid  liid  the  peaceful  starlight  burn 
O'er  buried  memory  and  reficret. 

Then  will  the  sIuiiiImtous  grasncs  grow 
AImivc  the  bed  wherein  F  sleep; 

Whil«*  winds  I  love  will  softly  blow, 
.\iid  deus  I  |o\e  will  Mtfllv  weep, 

O'er  rent  and  silenre  hid  boloW, 


Bring   i)op])ies. —  for    this    work    is 
v:iill  I 

I  caniiol  mouM  the  clay  of  life. 
.\  stronger  hami  must  grasjilhc  rein, 

A  stonier  arm  ainiul  the  strife. 
\  bniver  heart  tlefy  the  paiii. 

Youth  was  my  friend,  —  but  Youth 
lind  wiiii.'s, 

.\ml  he  has  Mown  unto  the  day, 
.\iid  left  me,  in  a  night  of  things. 

Bewildered,  oil  a  lonesome  way, 
.\nd  careless  what  tiic  future  brings. 

Let  there  be  sli-e])!  nor  any  more 

The  noise  of  useless  deed  or  word. 
Wldlc  the  free  spirit  hovers  o'er 

.\  sea  where  not  a  soiiml  is  heard— 
A  sea  of  dre^iiiiH,  without  a  shore. 


WINTER. 


659 


I)ark  Angel,  counselling  defeat, 
I  see  thy  mournful,  tender  eyes: 

I  hear  thy  voice,  so  faint,  so  sweet, 
And  very  dearly  should  1  prize 

Thy  perfect  peace,  thy  rest  complete. 

But  is  it  rest  to  vanish  hence, 
To  mix  with  earth,  or  sea,  or  air  ? 

Is  death  indeed  a  full  defence 
Against  the  tyranny  of  care  ? 

Or  is  it  cruellest  pretence  ? 

And,  if  an  hour  of  peace  draws  nigh. 
Shall  we,  who  know  the  arts  of  war. 

Turn  from  the  field  and  basely  fly. 
Nor  take  what  fate  reserves  us  for, 

Because  we  dream  'twere  sweet  to 
die? 

What  shall  the  untried  warriors  do. 
If  we,  the  battered  veterans,  fail  ? 

ilow  strive,  and  suffer,  and  be  true, 
In    storms  that  make    our  spirits 
quail, 

Except  our  valor  lead  them  through  ? 

Though  for  ourselves  we  droop  and 
tire, 

Let  us  at  least  for  them  be  strong. 
'Tis  but  to  bear  familiar  fire: 

Life  at  the  longest  is  not  long, 
And  peace  at  last  will  crown  desire. 

So  Death,  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak! 

But  I  will  labor  —  and  endure 
All   storms  of    pain  that  time  can 
wreak. 

My  flag  be  white  because  'tis  pure. 
And  not  because  my  soul  is  weak ! 


HOMAGE. 

WniTK  daisies  on  the  meadow  green 
Present  tliy  beauteous  form  to  me: 
Peaceful  andjoyful  these  are  seen. 

And  peace  and  joy  encompass  thee. 
I  watcli  ihcni,  where  they  dance  and 

shine. 
And  love  them  —  for  their  charm  is 
thine. 


Red  roses  o'er  the  woodland  brook 
Remember  me  thy  lovely  face: 

So  blushing  and  so  fi'csh  its  look. 
So  wild  and  shy  its  radiant  grace! 

I  kiss  them,  in  their  coy  retreat, 

And    think    of    lips  more  soft  and 
sweet. 

Gold  arrows  of  the  merry  morn. 
Shot  swiftly  over  orient  seas; 

Gold  tassels  of  the  l)cnding  corn 
That  ripple  in  the  August  breeze; 

Thy    wildering  smile,    thy  glorious 
hair. 

And  all  thy  power  and  state  declare. 

Vriiite,    red,   and    gold  — the    awful 
crown 
Of  beauty  and  of  virtue  too! 
From  what  a  height  those  eyes  look 
down 
On  him  who  proudly  dares  to  sue! 
Yet,  free  from  self  as  God  from  sin, 
Is  love  that  loves,  nor  asks  to  win. 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  flower, 
The    v.aving   grass,    the    dancing 
wave, 
The  fragrant  pomp  of  garden  Ijower, 

The  violet  of  the  nameless  grave. 
Sweet      dreams      by      night,    sweet 

thoughts  by  day, — 
And  lime  shall  tire  ere  love  decay ! 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  glow 
AVhen  morning  on  the  ocean  shines. 

Or  in  the  mighty  winds  that  blow, 
Snow-laden,  through  the  mounlaiL 
pines  — 

In  all  that's  fair,  or  grand  or  dread, 

And  all  shall  die  ere  love  be  dead! 


AFTEIi  ALL. 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard 
The  woik  of  tlif  reaper  is  ddiie, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits,  i>ale,  in  his  easy -chair, 

While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 


nr.o 


WISTKR. 


A  woman  is  knoelin^  Ix-sule  him; 

A  fair  yoiiiii;  hcail  i>  pn-st, 
III  till'  tirsl  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

Ami  far  from  over  the  distiinee 
'Die  falteriii'j  echoes  come, 

( »f  tlie  tlyiiig  blast  of  tnmiiiet 
Ami  tiie  rattling  roll  of  ilrmii. 

Then  the  grantlsire si)ealts,  in  a  wliis- 

IXT.  — 

■'  The  end  no  man  can  see; 
Hut  we  give  him  to  his  country, 
And     we     give     our     prayers     to 
Thee." 

riie  violeUi  .star  the  meadows. 
The  rosebud.s  fringe  the  <ioor, 

And  over  tlie  gnissy  orchard 
Tlie  pinlv-wiiite  blossoms  pour. 

Hut  the  grandsire's  cliair  is  empty, 
The  cottage  is  dark  and  still. 

There's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  bat- 
tle-field. 
And  a  new  one  iiiulir  the  hill. 

And  a  ]>alliil,  tearless  woman 
liy  the  cold  heartii  sits  alone; 

.\nd  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 
Ticks  on  witli  a  steady  drone. 


TIIK  QUKsr/oy. 

IJk»  Ai  >K  love's  sigh  Is  but  a  sigh. 
Doth    it   the   less   lovtr's   heart  dis- 
close '.' 
Iticaus<'  I  he  rose  must  fadi^  and  die. 

Is  It  the  less  the  lov.ly  rose? 

Kecause  black  night  musi  shroud  the 

day, 
Miall  the  bnive  sun  no  mon;  be  gay ".' 

liircatise    chill    autumn    frights    the 
blnls, 
Shall  we  distnist  that  npring  will 
come  '.' 
licranse  sweet  wonU  are  only  words, 

Shall  .'i^>'  forevcrmore  be  ilttmi)*' 
HecailHi*  otii   liljss  is  llfi'tiii'^  bliss, 

Shall  we  wliu  luvu  forbear  tu  kins  ? 


Because  those  eyes  of  gentle  mirth 
.Must  some  time  oeAse  my  heart  to 
thrill, 

Because  the  sweeteM  voice  on  earth 
Sooner  or  later  must  be  still, 

Because  its  iilol  is  unsure, 

Siiall  my  strong  love  the  loss  endure? 

All,    no!     lot    lovers    breathe    their 
sighs, 
.\nd  roses  bloom,  and  nnisic  soimd. 
And  jiassion  burn  in  lips  and  eves, 
And    ploiisiire's    merry   world    go 
round: 
Let  golden  sunshino  flood  the  sky. 
And  let  me  love,  or  let  me  die! 


wi  riii:uEn  nosES. 

Nut  made  bv  worth,  nor  marred  by 
ilaw. 
Not  won  by  good,  nor  lost  by  111, 
Love  is  its  own  and  only  law. 

And  lives  and  dies  by  its  own  will. 
It  wjLs  our  fate,  and  not  our  sin. 
That  we  should  love,  ami  IoM' should 
w  in. 

Not  boimd    by  oath,    nor  stayed  by 
prayer. 
Nor  iield  l>y  thirst  of  strong  desire, 
Love  lives  like  fiai;iauci'  in  the  air. 

.\nd  dies  as  incaking  waves  (:xj>ire. 
'Twas  death,  not  falsehood,  bade  us 

part ,  — 
The  th'at  h  of  love  that liroke  my  heart. 

Not  kiml.  as  dreaming  ]ioets  think, 
Nor  iiii'iciful.  as  sanes  say  — 

Love   li Is    not    where    its   victims 

sink. 
When  once  its  passion  ebbs  away. 

"I'was  niiliire — i(  was  not  disdain  — 

That  made  thee  careh-ss  of  my  pain. 

Not  thralled    by    law,   nor    ruled  by 
right. 
Love  keeps  no  aiulit  with  the  skies; 
lt.s    star,  that   once    is   i|uenclictl  iu 
■light, 
lias  set  — and  never  more  will  rise. 
.My  soul  is  lost,  bv  lln"e  forgot; 
.\nd  t hell's  no  iiuavcii   where  thou 
art  not. 


WINTER. 


661 


But  happy  be,  though  scathed  and 
lone, 
Who  sees  afar  love's  fading  wings — 
Whose  seared  and  blighted  heart  has 
known 
The  splendid  agony  it  brings! 
No  life  that  is,  no  life  to  be 
Can  ever  take  the  Past  from  me! 

Red  roses  bloom  for  other  lives  — 
Your  withered    leaves    alone    are 
mine ; 
Yet,  not  for  all  that  Time  survives 
Would    I   your    lieavenly  gift    re- 
sign — 
Now  cold  and  dead,  once  warm  and 

true. 
The  love  that  lived  and  died  in  you. 


THE  GOLDEN  SILENCE. 

What  though  I  sing  no  other  song  ? 
What    though    1    speak  no  other 
word  ? 
Is     silence      shame  ?      Is    patience 
wrong  ?  — 
At  least    one    song  of  mine   was 
heard : 

One  echo  from  the  mountain  air, 
One  ocean  murnuu-,  glad  and  free  — 

;  )ue  sign  that  nothing  grand  or  fair, 
In  ail  tills  world  was  lost  to  me. 

I  will  not  wake  the  sleeping  lyre; 
I    \\ill    not    strain    the   chords    of 
thought: 
'llie  sweetest  fruit  of  all  desire 
(  omes  its  own  way,  and  comes  un- 
sought. 

Though  all  the  bards  of  earth  wore 
dead. 

And  all  their  music  passed  away. 
What  nature  wishes  sliould  be  said 

Slic'll  (ind  the  rightful  voice  to  say! 

Her  heart  is  in  the  shimmering  leaf. 
Till"  drifting  cloud,  the  lonely  sky, 

And  all  we  know  of  bliss  or  grief 
She  speaks,  in  forms  that  cannot 
die. 


The  mountain  peaks  that  shine  afar, 
The  silent  stars,  the  pathless  sea, 

Are  living  signs  of  all  we  are, 
And  types  of  all  we  hope  to  be. 


A  DIRGE. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  POE. 


Cold  is  the  poean  honor  sings, 
And  chill  is  glory's  icy  breath, 

And  pale  the  garland  memory  brings 
To  grace  the  iron  doors  of  death. 

Fame's  echoing  thunders,  long  and 

loud. 

The  i)omp  of  pride  that  decks  the 

pall. 

The  plaudits  of  the  vacant  crowd  — 

One  word  of  love  is  worth  them  all! 

With  dew  of  giief  our  eyes  are  dim: 
Ah,  bid  the  tear  of  sorrow  start; 

And  honor,  in  ourselves  and  him. 
The  great  and  tender  human  heart! 

Through  many  a  night  of  want  and 
woe 
His  frenzied  spirit  wandered  wild, 
Till  kind  ilisaster  laid  him  low, 
And   love   reclaimed   its  wayward 
child. 

Through  many  a  year  his  fame  has 
grown. — 
Like  midnight,  vast;  like  starlight, 
sweet,  — 
Till  now  his  genius  fills  a  throne, 
And  homage  makes  his  realm  com- 
plete. 

One  meed  of  justice,  long  delayed. 

One    crowning    grace    his  virtues 

•      crave ! 
Ah,    take,   thou  great   and   injured 
shaile, 

Th(!  love  that  sanctifies  the  grave. 

And  may  thy  spirit,  hovering  nigh, 
Pierce  the  dense  cloud  of  darkness 
through, 
And  know,   with  fame  that  cannot 
die, 
Thou  hast  the  world's  compassiaq 
too! 


«62 


wrniER. 


George  Wither. 


HYMN     FOR   ANNIVERSAliY    M A  li- 
lt I  AGE  DAYS. 

Loiji),  living  hi'iv  are  wi-  — 

As  fast  united  yt-t 
A.S  wlien  our  liauils  ami  hearts  by 

Thr.' 

Togi'tlur  lirst  wtMv  knit. 
And  in  ;i  thankful  song 

Now  sin:;  we  will  'I'hy  jiraisf, 
For  that  'i'hoii  dost  as  well  prolong 

Our  loving,  as  our  days. 

Toi,'''fhor  wo  liavo  now 

l><'LCun  anolhcr  year: 
Hut  how  niui'h  time  Thou  wilt  allow 

Thou  niakest  it  not  ainx-ar. 
We.  therefore,  do  implore 

That  live  and  love  we  may. 
Still  so  as  if  hut  one  day  more 

Together  we  should  stay. 

Let  each  of  other's  wealth 

l'res«'r\e  a  faithful  lare, 
.\nd  of  e.ieh  other's  joy  and  liealth 

As  if  one  sotil  we  were. 
Sueh  eonscienee  let  us  make, 

Kach  other  not  to  grieve, 
A>i  if  we  daily  were  to  take 

Our  everlasting  leave. 

The  frowardness  that  s])ring8 

F'rom  our  I'ornipled  kiml, 
Or    from    tliose    trouhlous   outward 
tilings 

Whieh  may  distra<"t  the  mind, 
I'litnil  Thou  not,  O  Lord, 

<  >iir  luiisiant  Invc  In  shake —     • 
Or  to  di><turh  i)ur  true  accord, 

Or  make  our  Inarls  to  ache. 

Hut  let  them-  frailties  |»rove 

Alfi-clion's  excrcis4>; 
.\mc1  let  discretion  leacli  our  love 

Which  wins  tin-  iiohlcsi  prize. 
.So  tiim-.  whii'h  weai-s  away. 

And  ruins  all  things  else, 
Shall  (ix  our  love  on  Thee  for  aye, 

In  whom  purfecllun  dwells. 


FliOM  "POVERTY." 

Tin:  works  my  calling  doth  propose, 

Lot  me  not  idly  .shim; 
For  he  wliom  idleness  undoes, 

Is  more  ilian  lwie«'  undone: 
if  my  estate  enlarge  1  may, 

Kidargi'  nn   lov*-  for  Thee; 
And  though  i  more  and  more  decay, 

Vet  let  me  thankful  be. 

For  he  we  poor  or  he  we  rich, 

If  well  employed  we  are, 
II  neither  help*;  nor  hinders  much, 

Things  needful  to  prepare; 
.Since  (Jod  tlisposeth  riches  now, 

.\s  manna  hen'tt)fore. 
The  fcehlest  gatherer  got  enoW, 

The  strongest  got  no  more. 

Nor  poverty  nor  weali  h  is  that 

Whereby  we  may  aecpiire 
That  hlessetl  and  most  ha]ipy  state, , 

AN'heretf)  we  should  asjiire; 
r.iit  if  Thy  Spirit  make  me  wise. 

And  strive  to  df>  my  best, 
There  may  be  in  the  worst  of  these 

.\  means  of  being  blessed. 

The  rich  in  love  <ililain  from  Thee 

Thy  s]>eeial  gifts  of  grace; 
The  poor  in  spirit  (hoso  men  be 

Who  shall  behold  Thy  face: 
I.ord!  grant  I  m.iy  be  one  of  these, 

Thus  poor,  or  else  (bus  rich; 
K'en  wlielher  of  the  two  Thou  i>leaso, 

I  <aiv  not  gri-atly  whli'b. 


roi:  A  MtnonER  or  widow. 

llnw    near   me    came    the    hand    oj 

death. 
When  at  my  side  he  struck  my  dear, 
And  took  away  the  precious  breath 
Which  i|uickcncd  my  Itdoved  )MerI 
Mow  helpliss  am  I  iherebvmade  — 
lly  day  how  grieved,  by  night  how 
sa(l 
And  now  my  life's  delight  Is  gone, 
.Mas!  how  am  I  left  alone! 


WITHER. 


663 


The  voice  which  I  did  more  esteem 
Than  music  in  her  sweetest  key, 
Those  eyes  which  unto  mc  did  seem 
More  comfortable  than  the  day  — 

Those   now  by  me,  as   they  have 
been! 

Shall  never  more  be  heard  or  seen ; 
But  what  I  once  enjoyed  in  them 
Shall  seem  hereafter  as  a  dream. 

All  earthly  comforts  vanish  thus  — 
So  little  hold  of  them  have  we 
That  we  from  them  or  they  from  us 
May  in  a  moment  ravished  be ; 
Yet  we  are  neither  just  nor  wise 
If  present  mercies  we  despise, 
Or  mind  not  how  there  may  be  made 
A  thankful  use  of  what  we  had. 

I  therefore  do  not  so  bemoan, 
Though  these  beseeming  tears  I  drop, 
The  loss  of  my  beloved  one 
As  they  that  are  depiived  of  hope; 
But  in  expressing  of  my  grief 
My  heart  receiveth  some  relief. 
And  joyeth  in  the  good  1  had, 
Although  my  sweets  are  bitter  made. 

Lord,  keep  me  faithful  to  the  tnist 
AVhifh  my  dear  spouse  reposed  in  me ! 
To  him  now  dead  preserve  me  just 
In  all  that  should  performed  be; 
For  though  our  being  man  and  wife 
Extendeth  only  to  this  life, 
Yet  neither  life  nor  death  should  end 
The  being  of  a  faithful  friend. 

Those  helps  which  I  through  him  en- 
joyed, 
Let  Thy  continual  aid  supply  — 
That,  though  some  hopes  in  him  are 

void, 
\  always  may  on  Thee  rely; 
And  wlitUher  I  shall  wed  again, 
Or  iu  a  single  state  remain, 


Unto  Thine  honor  let  it  be, 
And  for  a  blessing  unto  me. 


FOR  A  SERVANT. 

Discourage  not  thyself,  my  soul. 
Nor  murmur,  though  compelled  we  \m 
To  live  subjected  to  control! 
When  many  others  may  be  free; 
For  though  the  pride  of  some  dis 

dains 
Our  mean  and  nuich  despised  lot. 
We  shall  not  lose  our  honest  pains, 
Nor  shall  om-  sufferance  be  forgot. 

To  be  a  servant  is  not  base, 

If  baseness  be  not  in  the  mind. 

For  servants  make  but  good  the  place, 

Whereto  their  Maker  them  assigned: 

The  greatest  princes  do  no  more. 

And  if  sincerely  I  obey, 

Though  1  am  now  desjiised  and  poor, 

I  shall  become  as  great  as  they. 

The  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth  was 

pleased 
A  servant's  form  to  undertake; 
By  His  endurance  I  am  eased. 
And  serve  with  gladness  for  Hissake: 
Though  checked  unjustly  1  should  be. 
With  silence  I  reproofs  will  bear, 
For  much  mor(>  injured  was  He 
Whose    deeds    most   worthy   praises 

were. 

He  was  reviled,  yet  naught  replied. 

And  I  will  imitate  the  same; 

For  though  some  faults  may  be  de 

nit'd. 
In  )iart  I  always  faulty  am: 
( 'onteiit  with  meek  and  humble  heart 
1  will  abivle  in  my  degree. 
And  act  an  huml)Ie  servant's  part. 
Till  God  shall  call  me  to  be  free. 


oG4 


WULCUT—  WoLFE. 


John  Wolcot  (Peter  Pindar). 


TO  MY  CANDLE. 


Tuof  lone  companion  of  the  spec- 
tn*<l  niyht  1 

I   wakt'  amid  thy  friendly  watchful 
light. 
To  steal  a  precious  hour  from  life- 
less sicfp. 

Hark,  tin-  wild  uproar  of  the  winds! 
and  hark!  |llie  dark. 

Hell's  gL'uius  roams   the   regions  of 
And  swells  the  thundering  horrors 
of  the  deep! 

From  cloud  to  cloud  the  pale  moon 
hurrying  flies, 

\ow   blaekened,    and    now   flashing 

through  the  skies;  [beam. 

[hit  all  is  silence  here,  l)enpath  thy 

I  own  I  labor  for  the  voice  of  j)raise  — 
l-'or  wlio  would  sink  in  didl  obliv- 
ion's stream  ? 

Who  would  not  live  in  songs  of  dis- 
tant days  ? 


How  slender  now,  alas!  thy  threail 
of  fire! 

Ah!  falling  —  falUng  —  ready  to  ex- 
pire! 

In  vain  thy  struggles,  all  will  soon  !j 
o'er. 

At  life  thou  snatchest  with  an  eagei 
leap ; 

Now  round  I  see  thy  flame  so  feeble 
creep. 
Faint,    lessening,  quivering,  glim- 
mering, now  no  more! 

Thus  shall  the  sims  of  science  sink 
away. 
And  thus  of  heaUty  fade  the  fairest 
flower  — 

For  Where's  the  giant  who  to  Time 
shall  say, 
"Destructive  tyrant,  I  arrest  thy 
power  I" 


Charles  Wolfe. 


TO  M.ti:Y. 

If  I  liad  thought  thou  couldst   have 
died. 

I  iidiihl  not  weej)  for  thee; 
Ihii  I  i.irgot,  when  by  thy  side. 

That  thou  I'ouldst  mortal  be: 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  passed 

The  time  woldd  e'er  be  o'er, 
An<l  1  on  thee  shoidd  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  nu  more! 

And  .Htill  iiiKm  that  faee  I  look. 
And  think  'twill  .smil<' aL;.iin  : 

And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  lirook. 
That  1  must  look  in  vain! 

Ihit  will  II  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  .say 
What  thou  ne'er  lefl'ht  un.said; 


And  now  1  feel,  as  well  I  may, 
Sweet  .Mary!  thou  art  deatl! 

If  tboiiwonldst  stHV,  e'en  as  thou  art. 

All  e<jld  and  all  serene  — 
I  still  might  jn-e^s  thy  silent  heart, 

.\nd  where  thy  smiles  have  been! 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corpse  1 
have. 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave  — 

.And  I  am  now  alonel 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me; 
.And    I,    perli;ij)H.    may   sootho    this 
heart. 

In  thinking  t<x)  of  thee: 


WOLFE. 


665 


Tet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 
Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 

As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 
And  never  can  restore ! 


BURIAL   OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral 
note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we 
hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell 
shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we 
buried. 

We   buried   him   darkly,  at  dead  of 
night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turn- 
ing; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty 
light. 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  tiseless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound 

him; 

But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his 

rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we 
said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sor- 
row ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face 
of  the  dead. 
And   we   bitterly   thought  of    the 
morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  nar- 
row bed. 
And  smoolhed  down  his  lonely  pil- 
low. 
That  the  foe  and  \ho  stranger  would 
tread  o'l^r  liis  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  llx'v'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's 

gone.  |liin»; 

And  o'er  his  cold   aslies  unbraid 


But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him 
sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has 
laid  him! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 
When   the   clock   struck  the  hour 
for  retiring; 
And  we  heard  the  distant  and  ran- 
dom gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 
From  the   field   of  his  fame  fresh 
and  gory ! 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised 
not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


GO,   FORGET  ME. 

Go,  forget  me  —  why  should  sorrow 

O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling  ? 
Go,  forget  me  —  and  to-morrow 

Brightly  smile  and  sweetly  sing, 
Snule  —  though  I  shall  not  be  near 

thee. 
Sing,  though  I  shall  never  hear  thee; 
May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  sun,  thy  presence  glowing, 

Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light; 
And  when  thou,  like  him.  art  going. 

Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 
All   things   looked   so   bright    about 

thee, 
That    they    nothing    seem    without 
thee; 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  were  too,  refined. 

Go.  thou  vision,  wildly  gleaming. 

Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell; 
(Jo.  for  ine  no  longer  beaming  — 
Hope  and  Beauty!  fare  ye  well! 
Go.  and  all  that  once  delighted 
Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted  — 
Glory's  burning,  generous  swell 
Fancy,  and  the  poet's  shell. 


660 


WOODWORTU—  WORDSWORTH. 


Samuel  Woodworth. 


THE   OLD   OAKEA'  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes 

of  uiy  rliililhocMl, 
When  foml  reeolli-ction  presents  them 

to  view!  — 
Tlie  orrliaril.  the  meadow,  the  deep- 

taiiiilfd  wililwood. 
And  pvtMT  loved  spot  which  luy  in- 
fancy knew! 
The    widc-sprcadini;    pond,    and    the 

mill  tlial  stood  i»y  it ; 
The  hridjic,  and  the  rock  wiierc  the 

eatanic*  fell; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house 

nii.di  it ; 
And  e'en  the  rnde  hncket  that  hnnij 

in  the  well  —  |hnck«'l. 

The  old  oaken  hucket,  the  iron-hound 
The  moss-covcfvd  hucket  which  hunp 

in  the  well. 

That  moss-oov«'red  vessel  I  hailed   as 

a  treasure; 
For  often  at    noon,  when   returned 

from  the  tield, 
I  foinid  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite 

pleasure  — 
The  puresi  and  swecu'st  that  natine 

can  yield 
Uow  ardent  I  seized  It,  with  hands 

that  were  glowing. 


And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bet 

toiu  it  fell! 
Then  sotui,  with  the  emblem  of  truth 

overllowing. 
And  drippinii  with  coolness,  it  rose 

from  the  well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from 

the  well. 

How  sweet   from   the  green,   mossy 

brim  to  receive  it, 
•Vs,  poised  on  the  furb,  it  inclined  to 

my  lips! 
Xot    a    full,    blushing   goblet  could 

tempt  me  to  leave  it. 
The  brifj;htest  that   beauty  or  revelry 

sii)s. 
And  nt»w,  f:;r  removed  from  the  loved 

habitation. 
The   tear  of   r»'gret   will   Intrusively 

swell. 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plan- 
tation. 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs 

in  !!i<'  well  — 
The  old  oaken  buck<?t,  the  iron-bound 

bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket  that  bangs 

in  the  well! 


William  Wordsworth. 


[^VtMN  IAm»  f'nm/toird  ii  Ffw  Milis  Above 
Tinlrrn  Alittry,] 

THE  sni.ME   OF  SATUUK. 

Tinxttii  abs«-nl  long, 
Then*'  fonns  of  lj<'auty  have  not  lH>en 

lo  me 
Ah  is  a  landscape  to  a  bliml  man's 

eye: 
But  oft,  in   lonely  roouLs,  and  'ndil 

tlie  iiln 
yi  townH  and  ci.ie  .  1  have  owed  to 

ihem. 


In    liours    of    weariness,   sensations 

sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  tin 

hear) ; 
And    jias^ing    even    into    my   purer 

mind. 
With    tranquil    re>ioi-ation:    feelings 

loo 
Of    nnremnnbered    pleasure-    smh, 

perhaps, 
As  may  have  bad  no  trivial  inlluenew 
On  that  Ix'st  |>ortion  of  a  uoo<l  man's 

life. 


WOBDSWORTH. 


66r 


His  little,  nameless,  iinremembered 

acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less, 

I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another 

gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed 

mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  '.be  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary 

weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened ;  that  serene  and  blessed 

mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead 

us  on,  — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal 

frame. 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human 

blood. 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the 

power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deej)  power  of 

Joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

I  have  learned 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the 
hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing 
oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Not  harsh  nor  gloating,  though  of 
ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I  have 
felt 

k  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the 
joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts:  a  sense  sub- 
lime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  inter- 
fused. 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting 
suns. 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living 
air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind 
of  man: 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all 
thought. 

And  rolls  through  all  things. 


[From  Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  Abovi 
Tintern  Abbey.\ 

APOSTROPHE   TO    THE  POET'S 
SI  STEM. 

Thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the 

banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou,  my  dearest 

friend. 
My  dear,   dear  friend,  and  in   thy 

voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  fonner  heart, 

and  read 
My  former  pleasm-es  in  the  shooting 

lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh!  yet  a  little 

while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was 

once. 
My    dear,    dear    sister!      And    this 

prayer  I  make. 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  be- 
tray 
The  heart  that  loved  her:  'tis  her 

privilege, 
Tiirough  all  the  years  of  this  our 

life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  in- 
form 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  im- 
press 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so 

feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil 

tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of 

selfish  men. 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is, 

nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  dis 

turb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  wc 

behold 
Is  full   of  blessings.      Therefore  let 

the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitaiy  walk; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain  wimls  be 

free 
To  blow  against  thee:  and,  in  after 

years. 
When   these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be 

matiuvd 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  miud 


tt68 


WOliDSWORTH. 


Shall   be  a  mansion  for  all    lovely 

fonns. 
Thy  mciuoiy  ht«  as  a  (l\vpIliiij;-i)!at'o 
For  all  sw.'ci  soumls  and  hunnouios; 

i)h,  ihi'ii. 
If  solitude,  or  foar,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
t^hould   he   thy   portion,    with   what 

healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt   tiuiu   remember 

nie, 
And    these    my   exhortations!    nor, 

perehance. 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can 

hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild 

eyes  these  gleams 
Of    past  existence,    wilt  thou  then 

forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful 

stream 
We  stood   together;  ami  that  1,  so 

long 
A  worshi])i)<'rof  Nature,  hither  came, 
rnwearitMJ  in  that  service:  rather  say 
With    warmer    love;    oh,    with    far 

deeper  Zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then 

forget. 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many 

years 
Of  al)sei)ee.  these  steep  woods  and 

lofty  elilTs, 
And    tikis   green   pastoral  landscape, 

were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and 

for  I  by  sake. 


{Fmm  The  Rmimion.'] 

Tin:  mop  of  faith. 

0\K  a<1e(|ua(e  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
"■.xists  —  one  only  —  an  assured  In-Iief 
That    the    proeessjon    of    our    fate, 

however 

Sad   or  disturljed,   Is   onlere«l    by  a 

lleing 
Of  iiidnile  benevolence  aul  power, 
Whoxe  everlasting  jiurposes  embrace 
All  ttceideriiM,   converting    ibem    to 

good. 

The  darts  ..f  anguish  ^/j'  not  where 
the  se;it 


Of  suffering  hath  been  thorough!) 
fortifit'd 

By  ac(|uiescenee  in  the  Will  supreme. 

For  time  ainl  for  elernily —  liy  lailh. 

Faith  ai)sulute  in  God,  including 
hope. 

And  the  ilefence  that  lies  in  bound- 
less love 

Of  His  perfections;  willi  liabiiual 
tlread 

Of  aught  unworthily  conceived,  en- 
dured 

Impatiently,  ill-done,  or  left  undone 

To  the  dishonor  of  Ilis  holy  name. 

iSoul  of  our  souls,  and  safeguard  o\ 
the  world, 

Sustain.  Thou  only  canst,  the  sick  of 
heart  I 

liestore  their  languid  spirits,  and  re- 
call 

Their  lost  affections  imto  Thee  ami 
Thine! 


[Fnvn   rill    F.rrursioii.'] 

IS  iii:\FLoi'Fi>  uhy/rs. 

On,   many  are  the    iK)ets    that  are 

sown 
l$y  Nature!  men  endowed  with  high- 
est gifts  — 
The  vision,  and  the  fa<'ulty  ilivine  — 
Vet  wanting  the  acconiplishmeiit  of 

verse 
(Which  in  the  docile  season  of  their 

youth 
It    was    denied     them     to    acqtiire, 

lbroii.;ii  laek 
Of   culture  and  the  inspiring  aid  of 

books; 
Or  hai)ly  by  a  tem]»er  loo  severe: 
Or  a   nice   backwardness   afraid    of 

shame). 
Nor,   having  e'er  as   life   advancal, 

been  led 

]{y   elnunistaiic<'   to  take   imto   the 

lieight 
The   measure   of    fhemselve.^,   these 

favored  lieln'js. 
All  i)Ut  a  scattered  few,  live  out  their 

time, 
Husbanding  that  wbieji  they  posses* 

within, 


WORDSWORTH. 


669 


^nd  go  to  the  grave  imtliought  of. 

Stronm'st  minds 
Are  often   tlios.?  of  whom  the  noisy 

world  hears  least. 


[From  The  Excursion.] 

THE   DEAF  DALESMAN. 

Almost  at  the  root 
Of    that  tall    pine,   the    shadow  of 

whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I  sit  at 

eve. 
Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a  long 

straight  path 
Traced   faintly   in    the    greensward; 

there  beneath 
A  plain  blue  stone,  a  gentle  dalesman 

lies. 
From  whom,  in  early  childhood,  was 

withdrawn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.      He 

grew  up 
From  year  to  year  in   loneliness  of 

soul ; 
And  this  deep  mountain  valley  was 

to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.     The 

bird  of  tiawu 
Did  never  rouse  this  cottager  frorri 

sleep 
With  startling  summons;  nor  for  his 

delight 
The  vernal  cuckoo  shouted ;  not  for 

him 
Murmured  the  lal)oring  bee.     \Vhen 

stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom   of 

the  lake 
Into  a  thousand  thousand  sparkling 

waves, 
Rocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud 

on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty 

crags, 
The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 
Was  silent  as  a  picture :  evennore 
Were  all   things   silent,  wheresoe'er 

he  moved ; 
Vet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure 

thoughts 
Upheld,    he   duleously   pursued    the 

round 


Of  rural  labors ;  the  steep  mountain- 
side 
Ascended,  with  his  staff  and  faithful 

dog; 
The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythr 

he  swayed; 
And  the  ripe  com  before  his  sickle 

fell 
Among    the    jocund    reapers.      Foi 

himself. 
All  watchful  and  industrious  as  he 

was, 
He  wrought   not;   neither  flock  no: 

field  he  owned; 
No  wish  for  wealth  had  place  within 

his  mind: 
Nor  husband's  love,  nor  father's  hope 

or  care. 
Thoiigh  boin  a  younger  brother,  need 

was  none 
That  from  the  floor  of  his  paternal 

home 
lie  should  depart  to  plant  himself 

anew  ; 
And  when,  mature  in  manhood,  he 

beheld 
His  parents  laid  in  earth,  no  loss  en- 
sued 
Of  rights  to  him;  but  he  remained 

well  pleased. 
By  the  pure  bond  of    independent 

love. 
An  inmate  of  a  second  family. 
The  fellow-laborer  and  friend  of  him 
To  whom  the  small  inheritance  hail 

fallen. 
Nor  deem  that  his  mild  presence  was 

a  weight 
That    pressed    upon    his    brother's 

house,  for  books 
^Vere  ready  comrades  whom  he  couk' 

not  tire. 
Of  whose  society  the  blameless  man 
Was  never  satiate.      Their  familiar 

voice, 
Even    to    old    age,    with    imabated 

charm 
Beguiled  his  leisure  hours,  refreshed 

his  thoughts; 
IJeyond  its  natural  elevation,  raised 
His  inlrovcrlcd  spirit,  and  bestowed 
l'lH)n  his  life  an  outward  dignity 
Which  all  acknowledged.     The  darJ^ 

winter  night, 


670 


WORDSWOIiTH. 


Tlie  stormy  day,  ha«l  oacli   its  own 

resource ; 
Song  of  the  iniuses,  sage  historie  tale. 
Science  severe,  or  word  of  Holy  Writ 
Aiinounciiij;  immortality  and  joy 
'I'o  the  a>seml)ied  si>irits  of  the  just, 
From  imperfection  and  decay  secure. 
Thus  soothed  at  home,  thus  busy  in 

the  lield. 
To  no  perverse  suspicion  he    gave 

way, 
Xo  htnguor.   peevishness,   nor  vain 

complaint: 
And  they,  who  were  about  him,  did 

not  fail 
In   reverence,  or  in  courtesy;  they 

I)ri7,ed 
Ilis  gentle  manners;  and  his  peaceful 

smiles. 
The  gleams  of  his  slow-varying  coun- 
tenance. 
Were  nu-l  with  answering  sympathy 

and  love. 

At   length,  when    sixty   years  ami 

five  were  told, 
A  slow  disease  insensibly  consumed 
The   powers  of  nature;  and   a   few 

short  steps 
Of    friends   and    kindred   bore   him 

from  his  home 
(Yon  cottage   shaded  by  the  woody 

cnigs) 
To   the   j)rofoun<ler  stillness  of  the 

gnive. 
Nor  was  his  funenil  denied  the  grace 
Of  nianv  tears,  virtuous  and  thouL;ht- 

ful  urief ; 
Heart -sorrow  rendered  sweet  by  gnit- 

itiide. 
And  now  that  monumental  stone  i)re- 

SiT\es 

Ills  name,  ami  tuinirdiilionsly  ndales 

How  loiii;,  and  by  what  kiiully  out- 
ward aids. 

And  In  what  jiure  contenledness  of 
mind. 

The  sad  privation  was  by  him  eii- 
diuvl. 

And  yon  t;ill  pine-tree,  whose  com- 
posint;  Houn<l 

Wa.s  waated  on  the  goo<l  man's  living 
ear, 

Uath  now  Its  own  jieculiar  sanctity; 


And,  at  the  touch  of  every  wander 

ing  breeze. 
Murmurs,  not  idly,  o'er  his  peaceful 


inOM  "  IXTIMATIOSS  OF  IMStOB' 
TALITY." 

(>ri{  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forget* 

ling: 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's 
star, 
Uath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

Antl  Cometh  from  afar; 

Not  in  entire  forget  fulness, 

.\iid  not  in  utter  nakedness. 

Hut  trailing  clouds   of  glory  do  we 

come 

From  (Jod,  who  is  our  home: 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to 

closi' 

I'pon  the  growing  boy, 
IJut  he  beiiolds  tile  light,  anil  wlietici^ 
it  Hows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  fn)m 
the  east 
Must  tnivel.  si  ill  is  Nature's  priest, 
.\nd  by  the  vision  si>lendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  man   i)erceives  it  dio 

away, 
vVnd  fade  into  the  light  of  common 
day. 

O  joyi  that  in  our  embers 
Is  someiiiini,'  that  dolh  live. 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  i»ast  years  In  mo 

doth  breed 
PerjK'lual  benedictions:  not  Indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  Ikj 

blesse.l; 

Delight  and  libeitv,  the  simple  creed 
of    childhood,    whether  btisy  or  at 

rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  llutterlng 
In  his  breast : 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  .song  of  thanks  and  prai.sc; 


WORDSWORTH. 


671 


But  for  those  obstinate  question- 
ings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
FalUngs  from  us,  vanishings; 
Black  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High    instincts,    before    which    our 

mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  sur- 
prised ! 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our 

day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our 
seeing; 
Uphold    us  —  cherish— and    have 
power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the 

being 
Of  the  eternal  silence:  trutlis  that 
wake. 
To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad 
endeavor. 
Nor  man  nor  l)oy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 
Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Thoiigii  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immor- 
tal sea 
Which  brought  us  hither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  sec  the  children  sport  upon  the 

shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling 
evermore. 


TO  A    YOUNG  LADY, 

WlIO  HAD   BEEN  REPROACHED  FOR  TAKING   LONG 
WALKS  IN   TlIE  COUNTRV. 

Dear  child  of  nature,  let  them 

rail! 
-  There  is  a  nest  In  a  green  dale, 
A  harbor  and  a  hold, 
Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shalt 

see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 
A  light  to  youug  and  old. 


There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd-boy, 
As  if  thy  heritage  were  joy. 
And  pleasure  were  thy  trade, 
Thou,  w  bile  thy  babes  around  t?  'if' 

cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 
A  woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not 

die, 
Xor  leave  thee  when  gray  hairs  are 

nigh, 
A  melancholy  slave; 
iiiit  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 
Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 


TUE  DAFFODILS. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  Hoats  on  high  o'er  vales  and 

hills. 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host  of  golden  daffodils; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 
They  stietched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing    their    heads    in    sprightly 
dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  bm 

they  ■ 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 
A  poet  coidd  not  but  be  gay. 
In  such  a  jocund  coiMpany: 
I  gazed  and  gazwl,  but  little  thought 
What   wealth    the   show   to  me  hail 

brought. 

For  oft  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
In  vacant  or  in  peiisivr  mood. 
They  flash  uj.on  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude. 
And   tlu'Ti   mv   heart   with   pleasure 

fills. 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


(>72 


WOltDSWORTH. 


rnii.KiiiT. 

il.Mi..    rwilisht.    s(>verei;;n    of    one 

pfjicffiil  hour  I 
Not    tliill    art    t!ioii   ii.s    uiulisccriiing 

Ni^ht; 
But  .stuiiious  only  to   nmiovi-   from 

•si'^lit 
Day's  mutable  distinctions.    ^Vncient 

power! 
Thus     (lid    the    walci-s    gleam,    the 

mountains  lowt-r 
Tc  till-  ru.li-  Briton,  when,  in  wolf- 
skin vest 
Here  roviui,'  wild,  he  laid  him  down 

to  rest 
On  the  bare  rock,  or  throui;h  a  leafy 

bower 
Lo(jke<l  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.    By 

him  was  seen 
The   si'lfsame  vision  whieh  we  now 

behold. 
At  thy  meek  bidilini;.  shadowy  pow- 

••r.  brou'_'ht  f(jrth : 
Th«'se  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf 

iH'tweeu; 
The  floods.  —  the  stai-s;  a  spectacle 

as  old 
As  the  beginning  of  the  lii-.iv.ns  .ind 

earth  1 


TO  Sl.KEI'. 

A  P'LOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  i)ass 

by. 
One   after   one;    tin-   sound  of    rain, 

and  Imm's 
Murniurinu;  the  fall  of  rivei-s,  winds, 

and  seas. 
>in<ioth  lirlds,  white  sheets  of  water. 

and  purr  sky; 
I've  thouudit  of  all  by  tunis;  and  still 

1  lie 
>Iee|)|fs-.;  and  soon  the  NUUill  binl's 

melodies 
Must  lii-ar,  (irst   iitler'd  Irom  my  or- 

rliard  trees; 
And    till-    first  cuckoo's   melancholy 

••ry. 
Kven  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights 

more,  I  lay. 
And  lotdtl  not   win  thee,  Sleep!    by 

any  stealth : 


So  do  not  let  me  wear  lo-niirht  away 

Williout  thee  wliat  is  all  tlie  mor- 
ning's wealth'.' 

Come,  itlesst'd  barrier  betwixt  da> 
and  day. 

Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and 
joyous  health! 


J.  icy. 


Sfiic  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  waj'S 
Besiile  the  springs  of  Dove; 

A   maid  wiiom   there  were  uone  to 
praise. 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Ilalf-lii(ideii  from  the  eye! 

—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

.She  lived   unknown,  and  few  could 
know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh  I 

The  dilfercnce  to  me! 


TO  .t    1)1  ST  AST    FIUKSn. 

Why  art  thou  silent!  Is  thy  love  a 
plant 

Of  suiii  weak  libre  that  the  treacher- 
ous air 

Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so 
fair? 

Is  there  no  delit  to  pay.  \u)  boon  to 
grant  ? 

Vtl  lia\e  my  tbouglils  for  tlnr  been 

\  ii^'ilant. 
Boiuid  to  thy  service  with  unceasing 

can'  — 
The   mind's   least    generous   wish  a 

niendieunt 
For  noiinbi   liiit   what   tliy  happiness 

eoidd  S])are. 

Speak! — though  this  soft  wann 
heart,  oni'c  fret-  to  bold 

.\  thousand  tender  jdeasures.  thine 
and  mine. 

Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary 
cold 


WORDSWORTH. 


G73 


Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with 
snow 

'Mid  its  own  busli  of  leafless  eglan- 
tine— 

Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their 
end  may  know ! 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the 

sky ! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where 

cares  abound  ? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart 

and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy 

ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into 

at  will, 
Those    quivering    wings    composed, 

that  music  still  I 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  be- 
yond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler!  —  that  love- 
prompted  strain 

— 'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-fail- 
ing bond  — 

^hrlll^^  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the 
plain: 

Yet  might'st  thou  i;eom,  proud  privi- 
lege !  to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady 
wooil ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 

Whence  thou  dost  pom-  upon  tlie 
world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  di- 
vine; 

Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never 
roam  — 

True  tvi  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven 
aiid  rionic! 


WE  ARE  SEl'EN. 

A  SIMPLK  child 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feols  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 


I  met  a  little  cottage  girl: 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said; 
Her  hair  was  thick  v,  ith  many  a  curi 
That  cluster'd  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  airj 
And  she  was  wildly  clad; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 
—  Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?" 

''  How  many  i    Seven   in  all,"  she 

said, 
And  wondering  look'd  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?  1  pray  you 

tell." 
She  answer' d,  "  Seven  are  we; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  tw'o  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  arc  gone  to  sea. 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !  —  I  pray  you  tell, 
Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be  ?" 

Then  did  the  Utile  maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boyi<  and  girls  arc  we; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"  You  nin  aboiit,  my  little  maid, 
Your  limbs  thev  ;ire  alive: 
If  two  are  In  the  chiurhyard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  grave?  are  green,  they  may 

be  seen." 
The  little  maid  replied, 
"  Twelve  steps   or    nioiv    from    mj 

mother's  door. 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem; 
And  there  ujion  the  ground  1  sit  — 
I  sit  ami  sing  to  them, 


r>74 


WORDSWORTH. 


An<l  often  nft«*r  sunsot,  sir, 
Wlu'ii  it  is  lii^ht  ami  fair, 
I  take  lay  little  porrinj^or, 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

Tlio  first  that  died  was  little  Jaue; 
In  l)i"<l  shi-  inoanini:  lay. 
Till  Ciod  rck-asiil  her  of  hor  pam; 
.Vnd  then  she  went  away. 

So  in  the  chiin-hyard  she  was  laid; 
And  all  the  summer  ilry. 
Together  rouinl  licr  ;;rave  we  play'd. 
My  brother  .Joliii  and  I. 

And  when  the  groinid  was  white  with 

snow. 
And  I  could  nui  and  slide, 
My  brother  .Inhn  was  forced  to  go, 
And  he  lies  by  her  siile. 

"  IIow  many  are  you  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  tliey  two  are  in  iieaven  ?" 
The  little  maiden  did  reply, 
"  O  master!  we  are  seven! 

"But  thev  are  dead;  those  two  are 

d.-ad : 
Their  spirits  are  in  Iieaven!" 
'Twas  throwing  words  away:  for  still 
The  little  maid  wonl<I  liave  her  will, 
And  said,"  Nay,  we  are  sevenl" 


ailK    WAH  A    I'llAMOM  OF  DE- 
LHI III'. 

SiiK  was  a  j)liantom  of  delii,'ht 
When   first  she    gleamed    upon   my 

sight; 
A  lovely  api)arltion.  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 
Iler  eyes  as  stjirs  of  twilii,'lit  fair. 
Like  twilight's,  too.  her  dusky  iiair; 
Hut  all  things  else  alxnil  lier  drawn 
From    May-lime    and    tlie    cheerful 

dawn; 
A  dancing  slia|N>,  an  image  gay, 
To  haimt,  to  startle,  and  waylay, 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yi-t  a  woman  Icm)! 
Lier  hou»'lio!d    muliuns    light    and 
free, 


And  steps  of  virgin  lilxTty; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
JSweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 
Praise,  Itlame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and 
smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death; 
The     reason     firm,    the    temperate 

will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and 

skill: 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  l>riglil 
With  something  of  an  angd  light. 


THY  ART  HE  NATUIiE. 

A  tokt! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to 

sdiool. 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon 

the  slatT 
Which   art    hath   lodged   within   his 

haml:  must  laugh 
IJy  precept    only,  and  shed   tears  by 

rule! 
Thy  art  i)c  nature;  the  live  ciu'rent 

•  I  naff, 
And  let  the  groveller  si]*  his  stagnant 

pool. 
In  fear  thai  i-lsc,  wlien  critics  grave 

and  cool 
Have  killi'd   liiui.  scorn  shouM  write 

ids  epitaph. 
How    docs     the    meadow-llowcr    its 

bloom  unfold! 
liccanse    llie    lovelv    Utile    Jlower    Is 

free 
Down   to  its  root,  ajid   in  this  fre«>- 

tlom  l)old : 
And  so  till"   grandi'ur  of  the  fon'.sl- 

free 
Comes   not   by   casting    in    .a  forma' 

mould. 
Uui  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


WORDSWORTH. 


675 


SCOBN  NOT  THE  SONNET. 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet.    Critic,  you 

have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors:  with  this 

key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the 

melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Pe- 
trarch's wound; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso 

soimd;  [grief; 

Camoens  soothed  with  it  an  exile's 
The  sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  k-af 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante 

crowned 
His  visionary    brow;  a   glow-worm 

lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from 

fairy-land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways;  and, 

when  a  damp  [hand 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  liis 
The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence 

he  blew 
Soul-animating    strains  —  alas,    too 

few! 


EVENING. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and 
free. 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 

Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad 
sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tran(iuillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the 
sea. 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion 
make 

A  sound  likethnnder — everlastingly. 

Dear  ciiild!  dear  girl,  that  walkest 
with  me  here! 

If  thou  appearest  imtouched  by  sol- 
emn thought. 

Thy  nature  is  not,  therefore,  less 
divine: 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all 
the  year. 

And  worshippest  at  the  temple's  in- 
ner shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  knew 
it  not. 


TIJE  WORLD   IS   TOO  MUCH  WITH    US. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late 

anil  soon. 
Getting  aufl  spending,  we  lay  waste 

our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a 

.sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  th« 

moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all 

hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleep- 
ing flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out 

of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God!  I'd 

rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  miglit  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant 

lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me 

less  forlorn 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from 

the  sea,  [horn. 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed 


WESTMINSTER  liRIDGE. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to   show 

more  fair: 
Didl  M(nild  he  be  of  soul  who  could 

pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment 

wear  [bare, 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and 

temples  lie 
Open  imto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky. 
All     bright    and    glittering    in    th3 

smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  tirst  splendor  valley,  rock,  or 

hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so 

deep ! 
The   river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet 

will: 
Dear   Ciod!    the    very   houses    seem 

as](>ep; 
Aud  all   that  mighty  heart  is  lying 

stmi    . 


676 


WOTTON. 


TO   THE   crcKOO. 

0  BI.ITHK  new-<'oiu«'rI    1  h;ue  hcanl, 

1  hoar  ihee  uiul  n-joire: 

U  i-uckoo!  shall  1  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  waiuloriiig  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lyini;  on  the  grass, 
Thy  loml  note  smites  my  ear! 
FrtJin  liill  to  hill  it  scciiis  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  mar! 

I  hear  tlu'c  bahblin:?  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  llowers; 
And  unto  me  thou  l)ringest  a  talo 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice     welcome,     darling    of     the 

spring! 
Even  yet  tliou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  l)Ut  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery. 


The  same  whom  iu  my  school-boj 

days 
I  listeneii  lo;  that  cry 
Wlilch    made   me    look  a  thousand 

ways 
In  bush  and  tree  and  sky. 

I'o  seek  thee  did  1  often  rovo 
'i"hroui,'h  woods  and  on  the  green; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love", 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
(an  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  i  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

()  blessed  bird!  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  ajijx'ars  Jo  be 
An  nnsuhstaniial,  fairy  place; 
That  is  til  home  for  thee  I 


Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


A  HAPPY  LII'F.. 

IIow  ha^ipy  is  he  born  and  taui,'ht 
That  serv(!th  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  tnUb  his  utmost  skill! 

Wliost"  jiassions  not  liismasiirs  are. 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death. 
Not  lied  unl<)  the  worlil  with  eare 
Of  imblic  fame,  or  i)rivate  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth 

raise 
Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 
IIow  deepest  wounds  are  given    by 

praise ; 
Mor  rules  oi  state,  but  rules  of  good : 


Who  hath  his  life  from  nimors freed, 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  re- 
treat : 

Whose  state  can  neither  natterer- 
fee.l. 

Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great; 

Who  (;od  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  bis  graee  than  gifts  to  lend; 
And  entertains  the  harndess  day 
With  a  wellH'hosen  lx)ok  or  friend: 

—  This   man    Is   freed    from    servile 

bands 
<  )f  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands: 
And  luiVLUg  nothing,  yul  hath  all. 


WYATT—YOUXG. 


m 


Sir  Thomas  Wyatt. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE   ONE  HE 
WOULD   LOVE. 

A.   FACE    that    should    content    me 

wonih-ous  well, 
yhould  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to 

behold ; 
With  gladsome  cheer,  all  grief  for  to 

expel; 
With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that 

it  should 
Speak  without  words,  sucli  words  as 

none  can  tell; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped 

gold. 
With  wit,  and  these,  might  chance  I 

might  be  tied. 
And  knit  again  the  knot  that  should 

not  slide. 


A  LOVER'S  PRAYER. 

Disdain  me  not  without  desert, 
Nor  leave  me  not  so  suddenly ; 

Since  well  ye  wot  that  in  my  heart 
I  mean  ye  not  but  honestly. 

Refuse  me  not  \\ithout  cause  why, 
Nor  think  me  not  to  be  unjust; 

Since  that  by  lot  of  faiUasy, 
This  careful   knot    needs    knit    I 
must. 


Mistrust  me  not,  though  some  there  be 
That  fain  would  spot  my  steadfast- 
ness. 

Believe  them  not,  since  that  ye  see 
The  proof  is  not  as  they  express. 

Forsake  me  not,  till  I  deserve; 

Nor  hate  me  not,  till  I  otfend. 
Destroy  me  not,  till  that  1  swei-v-e; 

But  since  ye  know  what  I  intend, 

Disdain  me  not,  that  am  your  own; 

Uefuse  me  not  that  am  so  true; 
Mistrust  me  not,  till  all  be  known; 

Forsake  me  not  now  lor  no  new. 


PLEASURE  MIXED    WITH  PAIN. 

Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp 

and  keen 
Bear  flowers  we  see,  full  fresh  and 

fair  of  hue : 
Poison  is  also  put  in  medicine, 
And  imto  man  his  health  doth  oft 

renew. 
The  fire  that   all  things  eke  consu- 

meth  clean. 
May  hurt   and   heal:  then  if  that 

this  be  true, 
I  trust  some  time  my  haini  may  be 

my  health. 
Since  evci7  woe  is  joined  with  some 

wealth. 


Edward  Young. 


[From  Nif/ht  Thovf/kts.] 

NIGHT  1. 

^ROCRASTTNATIOX.  AND  FORGET- 
FULNESS   OF  DEATH. 

Ai,L  ]>romise  is  poor  dilatory  man. 
And  that  through  <  very  stage:  when 

youui:.  incb't'd. 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly 

rest, 


Unanxious  for  ourselves;  and  only 

wish, 
As  duteous  sons,   our  fathers  were 

more  wise. 
At  thirty  man   suspects   himself   a 

fool; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his 

plan; 
At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay, 
Pushes   bis   prudent  purpose   to  re* 

solve; 


878 


YOUNG. 


In  all  tlip  niai^naniinity  Df  tlinnstht 
Kesolves,  ami  rf-n-solves;  iIk'U  dies 

tlu»  saiiu'. 
Ami  why".'     Ht'causo  ho  thinks  him- 
self iininurtal. 
All  men  think  all   men  mortal,  but 

themselves; 
Theins»^lves,    when    some    alarming 

shock  of  fate 
Strikes  throuj^'h  their  wonnded  hearts 

the  sudden  dread: 
Bui  their   hearts   woiuided.  like  the 

wnnniled  air, 
Soon  close ;  where  passed  the  shaft, 

no  trace  is  found. 
As  from  the  wins^   no  sear  the  sky 

retains; 
The  jKirted  wave  no  furrow  from  the 

keel; 
tjo  dies  in  hum:in  hearts  the  thoujihl 

of  death. 


(/•>..;;!   \i;//ll    lll.tlli/hls.] 

NUiiiT  II. 
TrMK,  ITS    IS/-:  JXl)  Afl.<!USK. 

TiMK,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides 

his  win^s, 
And   seems   to  creei>.  decrepit  with 

his  iifjr': 
Heboid    him,    when    past    by;    what 

then  is  seen. 
Itut    his  broad  ))inions  swifter  than 

the  winds  ? 

We   waste,    not  use,    our   time:    we 

breathe,  not  live. 
Time    wasted    is   existence,    used    is 

life: 

We  push  time  from  us,  and  we  wish 

him  back; 
Lavish  of  lustnim<<,  and  vet  fond  of 

life; 
Life  wi'  think  lonu,  and  short ;  death 

.seek,  and  slum; 
Body  and  soul,  like  ]>eevi-«b  man  and 

wif<', 
lTnit<»d  jar,  and  yet  are  loth  to  part. 
Oh,  the  ilark  ilays  of  vanity!  while 

here. 
How    tastoleHsl    iiuil    iiow    l<'rril»le, 

when  gone  I 


Gone?  they  ne'er  go:  when  past, 
they  haunt  us  still: 

Tlie  spirit  walks  of  every  day  de- 
ceased; 

And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a  fury 
frowns. 

\or  death,  nor  life,  delight  ns.  If 
time  past. 

And  time  possessed,  both  pain  us, 
what  i-an  plea.se  ? 

That  whiih  the  Deity  to  please  or- 
dained. 

Time  used.  The  man  who  couse- 
crates  his  hours 

By  vigorous  etfori,  and  an  honest 
aim. 

At  oni-e  he  draws  the  sting  of  life 
and  death: 

lie  walks  with  nature;  and  her  paths 
are  peace. 


[From  \ight  ThoughU.] 

Monx  II. 

JOr  TO  UK  SHARED. 

\.\Tri{K.  in  zeal  for  human  amity. 
Denies,  or  damll^.  an   undivided  joy. 
•Joy  is  an  imiiort ;  joy  is  an  exchange; 
.loy  flies  mouo|iolists:  it  calls  for  two; 
Kich    fruiil    1  leaven-planted  I    never 

|>lu<ked  by  one. 
Needftd  auxiliars  are  our  friends,  to 

^ive 
To  social  man  true  nlisb  of  himself. 
Full   on   ourselves,  descending   in  a 

line, 
I'li-asure's  liright  beam   is   feeble  in 

delii^'bt  : 

Delight  iiiieiiseis  taken  by  rcboimd  ; 
IJeverberal  ed  ]>leasui-es  lire  the  breasU 


[Fn>in  yiijht  Tlunujht*.] 

NUIIIT   II. 

roSSCIKMF.. 
()  TKK.\riiKitors   I'onscieiice!   while 

she  seems  |o  sleep 
On  rose  and  myrtle.  hilb'<|  with  »y- 

n-n  song; 
While   .she   seems    nodding   o'er  her 

cbar;;e,  to  «lrop 
On  headlong  a])pelite  the  slackened 

rein, 


YOUNG. 


679 


And  give  lis  »i)  to  license,  unrecalled, 

Unmarked;  see,  from  bdiind  lier 
secret  stand, 

The  sly  informer  minutes  every  fault, 

And  her  dread  iliary  with  horror  fills. 

Not  the  gross  act  alone  employs  her 
pen: 

She  reconnoitres  fancy's  airy  band, 

A  vvatclilu!  foci  tlie  formidable  spy, 

Listening,  o'erhears  the  whispers  of 
oiii  camp; 

Om-  dawning  purposes  of  heart  ex- 
plores. 

And  steals  our  embryos  of  iniquity. 

As  all-rapacious  usurers  conceal 

riieir  doomsday-book  from  all-con- 
suming licirs; 

Thus,  with  indulgence  most  severe, 
she  treats 

Us  spendthrifts  of  inestimable  time; 

Unnoted,  notes  each  moment  misap- 
plied; 

in  leaves  more  durable  than  leaves 
of  brass. 

Writes  our  whole  liistory. 


[From  Night  Thmtf/hts.] 

NIOUT  11. 

EFFECT  OF    CONTACT  WITH    THE 
WOULD. 

ViRTfK,  for  ever  frail,  as  fair,  below, 

Her  tender  nature  suffers  in  tlie 
crowd. 

Nor  touches  on  tlie  world,  without  a 
stain: 

The  world's  infectious;  few  bring 
back  at  eve. 

Immaculate,  the  manners  of  the 
morn. 

Something  we  thought,  is  blotted; 
wc  resolved. 

Is  shaken :  we  renounced,  retmnis 
attain. 

Each  salutation  may  slide  in  a  sin 

Untliought  before,  or  fix  a  former 
flaw. 

Nor  is  it  strange:  light,  motion,  con- 
course, noise. 

All,  scatter  us  ;il)road.  Thought,  out- 
ward-bound. 

Neglectfid  of  her  liome  affairs,  Hies 
off 


In  fume  and  dissipation,  quits  hei 

charge, 
And  leaves  the  breast  unguarded  to 

the  foe. 

Present   example   gets   within    our 

guard, 
And  acts  with  double  force,  by  few 

repelled. 
Ambition  fires  ambition;  love  of  gain 
Strikes,  like  a  pestilence,  from  breast 

to  breast: 
Riot,    pride,    perfidy,     blue    vapors 

breathe ; 
And  inhumanity  is  caught  from  man, 
From  smiling  man.     A  slight,  a  sin- 
gle glance, 
And    shot    at    random,    often    has 

brought  home 
A  sudden    fever  to    the    throbbing 

heart, 
Of  envy,  rancor,  or  impure  desire. 
We  see,  we  hear,  with  peril;  safety 

dwells 
Remote  from  multitude;  the  world's 

a  school 
Of    wrong,    and    what    proficients 

swarm  around 
We  must,  or  imitate,  or  disapprove; 
Must   list   as    their  accomplices,   or 

foes. 


IFrom  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  u. 

THE    CROWNING    DISAPPOINT- 
MENT. 

So  prone  our  hearts  to  whisper  what 

we  wish, 
'Tis  later  with  the  wise  than  he's 

aware. 

And  all  mankind  mistake  their  time 

of  day; 
Even  age  Itself.      Fresh  hopes  are 

hourly  sown 
In  finrowcil  brows.     To  gentle  life's 

descent 
We  shut  our  eyes,  and  think  it  is  a 

|)lain. 
We  take  fair  days  iu  winter,  for  the 

•piiiig; 


680 


YOUNQ. 


Ami  tiirii  oui  blessiiijjs  into  bane. 
Sin<-f  oft 

Man  niu-sl  roinpute  lliat  age  he  can- 
not  f.Tl, 

He  scant-  believes  lie's  older  for  his 
years.  [store 

Thus,  at  life's  latest  eve,  we  kiM-j)  in 

One  (li.sai>pointnient  sure,  to  crown 
tiie  rest ; 

The  disappoint mcnt  of  a  promised 
hour. 


[From  Xitjht  Th'nujhta.] 

MUHT    II. 
/ysCFFfr/KXcy   OF    TIIK    MOItl..). 

"Tis   preally  \vi.se   to    talk  witli   <Mir 

past  hours; 
And  ask  them,  what  report  they  bon- 

to  heaven; 
And    how    lliey    nn^hl    have    borne 

more  welcome  news. 
Their  answers  form  what  men  expi  - 

rieiice  eall ; 
If  wisdom's  friend,  her  best;  if  not, 

worst  foe. 
Oh,    recoiirile    them!      Kind    experi- 

cnee  cries, 
*'  There's  nothing  here,  l)ul  wiiat  as 

nothint;  weifjlis: 
Tlie  more  our  joy,  the  more  we  know 

it  vain; 
And    by   success  are   tutored  to  de- 

sjmir." 
Nor  is  it  4)idy  thus,  but  must  l)e  so. 
Who  knows  not  this,  iliouuii  j:ray,  is 

stillaebild; 
I,oos<-  I  ben  from  eartli  the  >;rasp  of 

foinl  desin-, 
Welyli    anehor.   an<l    some    happier 

clliue  e.\plore. 


[Fmm  Xif/hi  Thoiuihtii.] 

MOHT   II. 

F.FFoirr,   THE   fttCtSF    OF    (iKEAT- 

VAVVV. 

No  blank,  no  trifle,  nainre  made,  or 

meant. 
Vlrtui",  «»r  |mr|)oseU  virtue,  still   be 

tliiuu: 


This  cancels  thy  complaint  at  once; 

this  leaves 
in   act    no   trifle,   and   no  blank   in 

time. 
This  };reatens,  fills,  immortalizes,  all; 
This,  the  blest  art  of  turning  all  to 

gold; 
This,  the  good   heart's   preropitivo, 

to  raise 
A    royal    tribute    from    the    poorest 

hours: 
Immense    reveiuie!    every    moment 

pays. 
If  nothing  more  than  purpose  in  thy 

l>ower; 
Tbv    puri)o,se    firm   is   equal   to    the 

dee.l: 

W  ho  does  the  best  his  circumstance 
allows. 

Does  wi'il,  acts  nobly;  angels  could 
no  more. 

Our  outward  act,  indeed,  admits  re- 
straint; 

Tis  not  in  things  o'er  thought  to 
domine«'r. 

(Juanl  well  I  by  thought ;  our  tboimbts 
are  beard  in  Heaven. 


IFrvm  .\'ii/h(  Thnui/hts.] 
NK.irr  It. 

77/ A.  /:\/>  OF  I  UK  riiirrous. 

Tin;    <bamber  where  the  good   man 

meels  his  fate. 
Is    privileged    bevoiid    the    common 

walk 
Of  virtuous   life,  rpiiie  in  the  verge 

of  bea\<ii. 

A  deaib  bed's  11  detector  of  the  heart. 
Here,  tired  dissimulation  drops  her 

mask ; 
Through  life's  grimace,  that  mistre.ss 

of   the  scene! 
Here,  real  and  appannt  are  tin-  same. 
Vt)U  see   the   man;  you  see  his  ludii 

on  heaven. 

Whatever    farce    the    lM)astful    hero 

plays. 
Virtue  alone  lias  majesty  in  death; 
.\nd  gn-ater  still,  the  more  the  tyrant 

frowua. 


YOUNG. 


681 


\_From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT   III. 

THE  OTHER  LIFE   THE   END    OF 
THIS. 

"  He  sins  against  this  life  wlio  sliglits 

the  next." 
What  is  tliis  Ute  ?     How  few  their 

favorite  know! 
Fond  in  tlie  dark,  and  blind  in  oiu- 

embrace, 
By  passionately  loving  life  we  make 
Loved  life  unlovely ;  hugging  her  to 

death. 
AVe  give  to  time  eternity's  regard; 
And,  dreaming,  take  our  passage  for 

our  port. 
Life   has  no   value  as   an   end,  but 

means ; 
An  end,  deplorable!  a  means,  divine! 
U'lien  'tis  our  all,  'tis  nothing;  worse 

than  nought; 
A  nest  of  pains;  when  held  as  noth- 
ing, much: 
Like    some   fair    humorists,    life    is 

most  enjoyed 
When    courted    least;    most   worth, 

when  disesteemed : 
Then  'tis  the  seat  of  comfort,  rich 

in  peace ; 
In  prospect,  richer  far;   important! 

awful ! 
Not  to  be  mentioned,  but  with  shouts 

of  praise; 
Not  to  be  thought  on,  but  with  tides 

of  joy; 
'I'he  mighty  basis  of  eternal  bliss ! 


[From  Xight  Thoughts.'\ 

NIGHT  III. 

THE   GLOltY  OF  DEATH. 

Death  but  entombs  the  body;  life 
the  soul. 

Death  has  no  dread,  but  what  frail 

life  imparts; 
Nor  life   true    joy,   but   what    kind 

death  improves. 

Death,   that  absolves    my   birtli;    a 

curse  without  it  I 
Rich  death,  that  realizes  all  my  cares, 


Toils,  virtues,  hopes;  without  it  a 
chimera!  [joy: 

Death,  of  all  pain  the  period,  not  of 

Joy's  source,  and  subject,  still  sub- 
sist unhurt, 

One,  in  my  soul:  and  one,  in  her 
great  Sire. 

Death  is  the  crowTi  of  life; 
Were  death  denied,  poor  man  would 

live  in  vain ; 
Were  death  denieil,  to  live  would  not 

be  life ; 
Were  death  denied,  even  fools  would 

wish  to  die. 
Death  wounds  to  cure:  we  fall;  we 

rise;  we  reign; 
Spring  from  our  fetters,  fasten  in  the 

skies;  [sight: 

Where  blooming  Eden  withers  in  our 
Death  gives  us  more  than  was  in 

Eden  lost. 
This  king  of  terrors  is  the  prince  of 

peace. 
When  shall   I  die  to  vanity,  pain, 

death  ? 
When  shall  1  die  ?   When  shall  I  live 

for  ever  ? 


IFrom  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  III. 

CRUELTY. 

Man  is  to  man  the  sorest,  surest  ill, 

A  previous  blast  foretells  the  rising 
storm ; 

O'erwhelining  turrets  threaten  ere 
they  fall; 

Volcanoes  bdlow  ere  they  disem- 
bogue ; 

Earth  trembles  ere  her  yawning  jaws 
devour; 

And  smoke  betrays  the  wide-consum- 
ing fire: 

Ruin  from  man  is  most  concealed 
when  near,  |blow. 

And  sends  the  dreadful  tiding?,  hi  the 

Is  this  the  flight  of  fancy  ?^  Would 
it  were! 

Heaven's  Sovereign  saves  all  beings, 
but  himself. 

That  hideous  sight,  a  naked  human 
heart. 


682 


YOUNO. 


[From  Xiijht  Thoufihts.] 

XHJIIT    IV. 

FALSE    TKIillOns   IS    i  IFW  OP 
l>F.A  Til. 

WUY  Start  :it  d.-atli!  When-  is  he? 
Duath  aiTived, 

Is  past;  not  cuiiif,  or  ji;ono,  he's 
never  here. 

Ea'  hope,  sensation  fails;  hlack- 
hodiu.;  man 

Receives,  not  sntTers,  death's  tremen- 
dous l)Io\V. 

The  knell,  tlie  shroud,  the  nialtoek. 
and  the  tjrave; 

Tlie  deep,  damp  vault,  the  darkness, 
and  the  worm;  |«'Vf, 

These  are  the  bugiiears  of  a  winters 

The  terroi-s  of  the  livinL;,  not  the 
dejul. 

Imai,'ination'8  fool  and  error's  wretch, 

Man  makes  a  death,  whieh  nature 
never  made: 

Then  on  the  point  of  his  own  fancy 
falls; 

And  feels  a  thousand  deaths,  in  fear- 
ing one. 


{From  S'iijhl  Thouffhfa.] 

MOHT   V. 

difffhest  souhces  of  fuke- 

li.iL    TEA  Its. 

()i;k    fimi-nil    tears    from    ditferent 

causes  rise. 
As  if  from  cisterns  in  the  soul. 
Of  vari«)us  kinds  they  flow.      From 

tender  ht-arls 
By  soft  contagion  called,  some  burst 

at  «»nce. 
And  stream  obsequious  to  the  lea<l- 

inu  <ve. 
.Some  a-sk  more  tim  •,  by  curious  art 

distilliMl. 
Some  hearts,  in  secn-t  hard,  iuia|it  to 

m<lt. 
Struck  by  tbc  xwn'^w  of  Ihf  iiid)lic  eyr, 
Like  M)*^"*'  snilltrn  nx'k,  tfusli  out 

amaiu. 
Some  we.'p  to  slian-  th<-  fame  of  the 

d<'ci';ts«-d. 
bo   hiKh   in   uierit,  and  to   them   so 

deftr: 


They  Jwel!   on   praises,  which  they 

think  tiny  share; 
And  thus,  without  a  blush,  commend 

themselvejj. 
Some   inoiun,  in   proof  that  sonir 

thing  they  coulil  love: 
They  Wfcp  not  to  relieve  their  griil" 

but  show. 
Some  weej)  in  perfect  justice  to  the 

dead. 
As  conscious  all  their  love  is  in  arrear. 
Some  mischli'vously  weep,  not  unap- 
prised. 
Tears,  sometimes,  aid  the   conquest 

of  an  eye. 
With  wliat  address  the  sof t  Ephesians 

draw 
I'heir  sable   network  o'er  entangled 

hearts!     . 
.Vs  seen  through  ciysliil,  how  their 

ro.ses  glow, 
While    liijuid    pearl    runs    trickling 

tlown  tiieir  clleekl 
Of  hers  not  prouder  Egypt's  wanton 

•  lueen. 
Carousing  gems,  herself  dissolved  in 

love. 
Some  weej)  at  death,  abstracted  from 

the  dead, 
And    celebrate,    like    Charles,    theii 

own  tleeease. 
By     kind     construction     some     are 

deemed  to  w«'ep 
necause  a  decent  veil  conceals  their 

joy. 

Some  weep  in  earnest,  and  y«'t  weep 

in  vain, 
As  deep  in  indiscretion  as  in  woe. 
I'a-ssion,    blind   passion!    impotenlh 

pours 
Tears,  that  deM'rve  more  tears:  whili 

Keason  sleeps. 

Or  gazes  like  an  idiot,  unconcerned; 
N'or  comi>rehends  the  meaning  of  the 

storm; 
Knows  not  it  .speaks  to  her,  and  her 

alnni'. 

Ilalf-rouud       the       ;;l..l.i-.      llie       leurj 
pumped   up  by  i!':ith 

,\re  spent  in  waierinu  \anfliesof  life; 
In    making    folly  llourisli    .still  more 
fair. 


YOUNG. 


683 


[From  Xight  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  V. 

VIRTUE,    THE  MEASURE  OF 
YEAHS. 

What  though  short  thy  date! 

Virtue,  not*  rolling  suns,  the  mind 
matures. 

That  life  is  long,  which  answers  life's 
great  end. 

The  tinu;  that  Ix-ars  no  fruit,  de- 
serves no  Jianie : 

The  man  of  wisdom  is  the  man  of 
years. 

In  hoary  youtli  Methusalems  may  die ; 

Oh,  how  misdated  on  their  llatteriug 
tombs ! 


[From  Xir/ht  Thoughts.] 

NIGUT   V. 

POWER   OF  THE   WORLD. 

Nor  reason,  nor  affection,  no,  nor 

both 
Lh/ubined,  can  break  the  witchcrafts 

of  the  world. 
Behold,  the  inexorable  hour  at  hand! 
Ueholtl,  Iho  inexoraI)le  hour  forgot! 
And   to  forget  it  the  chief  aim  of 

life; 
Though   well   to  ponder  it,  is  life's 

chief  end. 


■  IFrom  Night  T/ioughts.] 

NIGHT  VI. 
ALL    CHAXGE:    NO   DEATH. 

AlA.  change;  no  death.    Day  follows 

nigiit ;  and  night 
The  dying  day;  stars  rise  and  set  and 

rise; 
Earih  lakes  the  example.     See,  the 

sunmier  gay. 
With  her  green  chaplet  and  aml)ro- 

sial  flowers, 
Droops  into  pallid   autiuiin:   winter 

gray. 
Horriil  v  ith  frost  and  turbulent  with 

storm. 
Blows  aiUumn,  and  his  golden  fruits 

away : 


Then  melts   into    the    spring:    soft 
spring,  with  breath 

Favonian,  from  warm  chambers   of 
the  south.  I  fades, 

Kecalls  the  first.     All.  to  reflourish. 

As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks,  to  re-ascend. 

Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not 
expirt's. 
With  this  minute  distineti.m,  em- 
blems just, 

Nature  revolves,  but  man  advances^' 
both 

Eternal ;  that  a  circle,  this  a  line. 

That  gravitates,  this  soars.     The  as- 
pi  nng  soul. 

Ardent  and   tremulous,   like    tlame, 
ascends ; 

Zeal    and     humility,   her   wings    to 
heaven. 

The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various 
forms. 

All  dies  into  new  life.     Life   bom 
from  death 

Rolls  the   vast   mass,  and  shall   for 
ever  roll. 

No  single  atom,  once  in  being,  lost. 


[Fi-om  Night  Thoughts.] 

XIGIIT  VII. 

AMBITION. 

Max  must  soar: 
An  obstinate  activity  within, 
An    insuppressive    spi'ing   will    toss 

him  uj) 
In  spite  of  fortune's  load.     Not  kings 

alone. 
Each  villager  has  his  audiition  too: 
No  sultan  prouder  than  his  fettered 

slave:  |  straw. 

Slaves  build  their  little  Ilabylons  of 
Echo  th(>   proud   Assyrian,  in   llieir 

hearts. 
And  cry — "Behold  the  wonders  of 

my  might!" 
And   why  ?      IJecause    immortal    as 

their  lord. 
And   souls   immortal   must  for  ever 

heave 
At  something  great;  the  glitter,  or 

thegnl.l; 
The  praise  of  mortals,  or  the  praisa 

of  Heaven. 


684 


YOUNU. 


Nor     absolutely     vain     is     Imtnan    IJiit  chiefly  then,  when  grief  puts  in 


praise. 


lier  claim. 


When  human  is  supported  hyilivine.    Joy  frt>m  the  joyous,  frequently  be- 

.     "       .  !  trays; 

As   love   of   pli'asure   is  onIaine«l  to    Oft  lives  in  vanity,  and  dies  in  woe. 


s;uard 


Joy  amidst  ills,  corroborates,  exalts; 


And  feed  our  bodies,  and  extend  our   'Tis  joy  and  conquest ;  j(^-  and  virtue 


race ; 


[tcct, 


too. 


The  love  oif  praise  is  planteil  to  pro-    A  noble  fortitude  in  ills,  delights 
And   propagate    the    glories  of    the    Heaven,  earth,  ourselves;  'tis  duty, 


mind. 


IFrmn  Night  Thoughts.] 
xuniT  VIII. 
WISDOM. 


glory,  peace. 
Adliction  is  the  good  man's  shining 

scene : 
Prosperity  conceals  his  brightest  ray: 
As  night  to  stare,  woe  lustre  gives  tc 

man. 


.No  man  I'er  found  a  happy  life  by    Henus  in  battle,  pilots  in  the  storm, 


chance: 


And  virtue  in  calamities,  admire. 


Or  yawned  it  into  l)eing  with  a  wisli;    Tlie  crown  of  manhood  is  u  winter 


Or,  with  the  snout  of  grovelling  ajv 

jietite, 
K'er  smelt   it  out,  and   grubbed   it 

from  the  dirt. 
An   art    it    is.  ami  nnist  be  learned; 

and  learned 
With  unremitting  effort,  or  be  lost; 
And  leave  us  perfect  blockheads,  in 

n?ir  hlt<";. 
'I'he  r  .  drop  down  titles  and 


An  evergreen  that  stands  the  north- 
ern blast. 
And  Idossonis  in  the  rigor  of  our  fate. 


[From  Snjhl  Thoughtf. 
NIOIIT  IX. 

TiiK  won  I.I)  A  an.iri: 


WiiEKK   is  the  <lusl  that   has    not 
been  a!iv«?  ? 
•k   lis;   but  wisdom  I  The  si)ad.'.  tiu-  plough,  dlstm-b  our 
ancestors; 

"    "'"uld   we    reap    our 


\Veai:  J I      ri.  I 

must  be  sought; 

Sought  before  all;   but  (how  luilike  !  Krom   i 

all  else  j  ,1 

We  seek  tm  earth!)  'tis  never  sought  I  The  gl 

in  vain.  i 

.\\v\\-' 

Oeni. 
While 


cm 

NON 

lint 


liinight*,'] 

.\iisi-(nrn\F.. 

M  have  cause  to 
-  that  cause 


'i<ii\.  Ipains; 

Our  fanlii  are  at  the  botlom  of  our 
Knot,    ill   aci.  or  judgment,    Is  the 


Of 

;\n.i 
Let   . 


li«.  We  sin,  or  we 
,  when  false  opinion 
•f    lie    bani-^hed,  joy 


irMi's  hollow  SUP" 

ingsons. 
liiiHci  levels  keep; 
ns     support     the 


The  moist,  oi  human  frame  the  sun 

exhales; 
Winds  scatter,  through  the  mighty 

void,  the  dry: 
Kailh    repossesses  jiart  of    what   she 

ga\e, 
.\nd    the    freed    spirit    mounts    on 

wings  of  lire: 
Each  element  ]>artakes  our  scattered 

sp(jils; 
As   natnri-.  wide,  <tnr  ruins  sprea<l: 

man's  death 
Inhabits  nil  things,  but  the  thought 

of  man. 


4 


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